


Family

by stuffandnonsense



Series: Family [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Multi, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 159,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1811500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffandnonsense/pseuds/stuffandnonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Season 5, an alternate reality take on Season 6, but not so crazy-alternate that anyone's unrecognisable. Starts with strong Spike and Dawn friendship, and builds from there. Just lots of small tweaks that pack a punch - like the odd bit of honest communication amongst the Scoobies.</p><p><strong>Runner Up</strong> for <strong>Best Angst - Spuffy</strong> in round 30 of the <strong>SunnyD Awards</strong>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Prologue: Dawn and Spike_

Dawn shifted from foot to foot outside the crypt door. She'd skipped her last class of the day, and run almost all the way to Restfield. But now she'd arrived, she was unsure. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears as she struggled to even out her breathing.

She hadn't seen him since the tower. Whenever she mentioned him, somebody cut her off and changed the subject. Eventually, she'd realised that if she ever wanted to see him again she'd have to do it on her own.

Should she just go in? She could almost hear Joyce's voice telling her to knock first. But if he was asleep downstairs, he might not hear it. Except ... vampire hearing. Dawn raised her hand, then stopped, her stomach clenching in sudden panic.

What if he didn't want to see her? It was her fault, after all. What if he hated her so much he couldn't even stand the sight of her? Maybe he'd left Sunnydale. After all, why would he stay? It was Buffy he loved, not her. 

None of the Scoobies knew what to say to her. They'd included her in The Talk - when they'd decided to hide Buffy's death to keep Dawn safe from foster care or, worse, Hank. But after that, they just kept asking her if she needed anything and then looked relieved whenever she left the room. No one  _really_  talked to her. Or listened.

Why had she been so sure Spike would be different? It had seemed so obvious to her this morning that he would be better than the others. Dawn's stomach clenched tighter, and she could feel her lungs seizing up as the first fat tear started running down her cheek.

"Bit? You gonna come in?"

His voice was muffled by the closed door, so Dawn didn't register that it had no strength in it. All she could think was that he was there and awake and he  _couldn't_  hate her if he was calling her Bit. She shoved the door open, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dark of the crypt. She made a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and she ran across the room and threw herself into his opening arms.

"'S'okay. I've got you," he whispered, his arms holding her tight, one hand cupping the back of her head while she pressed her face into his shoulder, the other making small circles on her back. Dawn just let go, the tears exploded out of her body in great racking sobs, lungs heaving, limbs shaking, eyes and nose streaming. Spike just kept making soothing noises, not really saying anything, until Dawn had cried herself into a hiccoughing silence. After a while of sitting quietly, Dawn shifted and Spike loosened his hold so that her swollen eyes were level with his. For the first time since she'd arrived, she really looked at him. She sucked in a breath.

"What happened to you?"

One eye was swollen shut and his uncovered arms and neck were dotted with ugly black bruises. Dried ... something ... was flaking off his skin, and some of the damp bits on his clothes  _definitely_  weren't her tears. Dawn hoped it was mud, because it was on her now, too. Where he wasn't bruised, his skin was grey and almost hanging off his bones. He had always been thin, but now he looked like he'd lost half of himself. A ghost of a smile wavered over his lips.

"Nothin' you need to worry about, Platelet. 'M not dust, and they all look much worse'n me." 

"When's the last time you ate?"

"Don't 'member." He closed his good eye, and let his head fall back against the chair. 

Dawn glared at him, then levered herself out of the chair and walked over to the fridge.

"Ewwww. Everything in here is mouldy. I'm gonna go get you some blood. You need to eat."

Eyes still closed, Spike's lips twitched into an almost-smile.

"There's some cash in my left duster pocket." 

Dawn found the duster on the floor by the chair. It was tacky with ... mud, she told herself; definitely mud ... and it had tears in it from a claw or a knife.

"Don't move 'til I get back." Dawn glared again.

"Not sure I could if I wanted to, pet." He coughed then, a wet, I-have-internal-injuries cough.

Clutching the money she'd found, Dawn edged toward the door, eyes still locked with Spike's. "I'll be back soon."

He raised a hand, then let it drop again. "I'll be waitin'."

When Dawn returned with as much blood as she could carry, Spike was still slouched in his chair, eyes closed. Mimicking something she'd seen Buffy do, she opened a bag and poured blood into a (fairly) clean mug and put it into the microwave. When it pinged, Spike's head jerked up. Dawn brought the mug over to him.

"Here. Drink."

Spike took the mug and held it. He'd lied. He knew exactly how long it had been since he'd eaten. It had been before the tower. Before Buffy jumped. He knew he shouldn't have been the one who survived. Didn't deserve it. Every time he even smelled blood, it was Dawn's blood on top of that tower again, and he remembered how he'd broken his promise to keep her safe. His failure nauseated him. He shut his good eye again.

" 'M sorry, pet. I should've fought harder."

"What?" Dawn's eyes widened.

"It's my fault your sis.... All my fault. Was supposed to keep you safe. Promised her I'd keep you safe. And now here you are, takin' care of me." A sort of half-laugh, half-sob spilled out of him. His eyes were clenched shut, every muscle in his face taut. His knuckles were white where they held the mug in a death grip.

Now Dawn's lips twitched towards a smile. She knew she'd been right to come to Spike. He  _knew_. They were the same. Their grief held that same flavour of sour, gut-wrenching guilt, and the soul-deep regret that they were alive and Buffy was dead.

"It's not your fault." Dawn touched Spike's face. She could feel the words resonating in her bones as she said them. She hoped that one day they'd both be able to believe them. "Now drink! Stupid vampire."

Spike made a stuttering noise that was almost a laugh, put the mug to his lips, and forced himself to drink. The second the blood passed his lips, he could feel the hunger come rushing back. His eye flashed yellow and then he vamped out completely. Dawn took a small step back.

"Don' worry, luv. Jus' been a while since I've had a proper feed. Demon's hungry." Spike forced his face back to human, but his open eye remained yellow.

Dawn nodded, eyes still a bit wide, and turned to put the already-open bag into the microwave. When it pinged, she handed it to Spike and he drained it. The swelling around his eye was going down visibly, revealing a sliver of colour, and his bruises started looking older, more yellow.

"More?"

"Please."

After draining two more bags, Spike looked almost healthy. Both eyes were fully open, and his skin seemed to fit better over his bones, although he was still too thin.

"Ummm, Spike? I think you're leaking." Dawn pointed to a rapidly spreading damp patch along his right side.

Spike looked down. "Bloody hell." He sighed. "There's a first aid box under the sink." As Dawn passed him the kit, he pulled off his shirt, wincing. He was actually leaking from a few places, but the gash running from under his right armpit across to his belly was the worst. As Spike patched himself up, Dawn watched his body knitting itself together. It was weird, like every time she looked away something was a bit more healed, but she never quite saw it happening.

Spike stood up, stronger but still wavering a bit. Turning, he asked, "How's m'back? Any more bleeding?"

"Nothing I can see. But you should probably shower. You're kinda sticky all over. Also, kinda smelly. Sorry." Dawn ducked her head at the last, embarrassed. Spike laughed, and it almost reached his eyes.

"Right. I'll go downstairs and clean m'self off." He looked at her. "Must be about time for you to eat. There's a number for pizza on the fridge. Whatever you want, and some wings for me. Phone's in the duster."

"Okay. Um, thanks?"

"You're my Niblet. Do anything for you." Spike kept full eye contact with her, letting her see the truth of his words. Then he dropped down the hatch into the downstairs, and she could hear him starting the shower.

Dawn felt her cheeks stretch into the first real smile she could remember since her mother died. Even without Joyce or Buffy, she still sorta had family.

As she started looking around the crypt, the smile dropped off her face. Empty whiskey bottles littered the floor. There were multiple trails of ... just yuck ... between the door and Spike's chair. An assortment of filthy weapons and even filthier clothes had been dropped haphazardly around the room. Buffy used to complain that Spike was like an old woman when it came to keeping his weapons clean and sharp. It felt wrong even seeing them like this.

He'd let his precious duster get sliced up and dirty. And then he'd just left it on the floor.

Dawn sank into Spike's chair, suddenly overwhelmed with fear.

When he re-emerged from the lower level, clean, Dawn flung herself at him again.

"What's all this, then?"

Dawn buried her face in Spike's chest, her grip making his ribs ache. "Don't die on me," she whispered. "You can't leave me too."

Spike suddenly felt ashamed. He'd stopped himself from walking into the sunrise, but... Not eating, not healing, fighting every night and then drinking himself into unconsciousness. It was just a slower way to kill himself. He couldn't have fought off a fledge, the state he was in before Dawn came. And he knew he still would've gone out. Not good. He had to start taking care of himself. Dawn might not survive losing someone else, even if it was only him. He couldn't keep her safe if he was dust.

"Not gonna die on you, Dawn. You have my promise. An' you know I always keep m'promises."

She nodded into his chest, tightening her grip.

"C'mon. Let's get some food into you, Pigeon. You ring the pizza place while I was downstairs?"

Dawn mumbled no, still clutching at Spike.

"Let's go out, then.” He looked around. “Bit more hygienic, yeah?"

Dawn lifted her head.

"M'kay," she said softly.

"'S still light out. Gonna need to go through the sewers. Think you can handle it?"

Dawn nodded into his chest again.

"Pro'ly oughtta loosen that grip if we're gonna walk."

She shifted around so that she was pressed against his left side. Spike let out a thankful breath she hadn't gone to the right, and draped his arm across her shoulders.

The sewers were a welcome distraction. With the smell, the squelching underfoot, and Dawn's total inability to see, they moved into an easy, light conversation that took them all the way to Sunnydale Mall.

"Food Court alright? Anywhere else is a bit difficult for me to get to in daylight."

Dawn nodded.

Spike prodded her into eating more than she'd thought she could. And now, being in a public place where naked emotion was easier to suppress, Dawn started talking about what had been happening while Spike had been locked into his routine of fighting all night, then drinking enough to be able to pass the day in unconsciousness.

Dawn told him about The Talk, and how Willow was trying to fix the Buffy-bot to make the lie more convincing. That Willow and Tara were now living at Revello Drive, how Xander drove her to school every morning, and how Giles wasn't really talking to anyone anymore.

Breaking off suddenly, Dawn asked "Why weren't you at the funeral?"

Spike's jaw dropped.

"The what now?"

No one had told him about the funeral.  _Oh God._  Dawn's eyes filled with tears.

Spike couldn't believe what he was hearing. He'd thought things had changed, after he took Glory's beating, after he fought alongside them. He thought those last weeks had meant something to them. Apparently not.

Something on his face must have worried Dawn, because she was holding his hands, and whispering that she was sorry.

“Who was there?”

Dawn gave Spike an arch look. “You mean, was Angel there?” Spike ducked his head, embarrassed he’d been so transparent, and ashamed for needing to know. “No, he wasn’t. Not that I saw, anyway. Just Willow and Tara and Xander and Anya and Giles and me.”

There was a long pause, while Spike tried to mentally talk himself out of his hurt at the Scoobies shutting him out. Again.

"I don't really remember it," Dawn continued.

Spike looked up, "Why not?"

"Um. I couldn't stop crying, after. There were pills."

"They  _drugged_  you?!"

"Hey! There was a doctor and stuff. No one knew what else to do. I guess they helped."

Spike hooked her chair with his foot, pulling her close enough for him to wrap an arm around her shoulders.

"Why didn' you come to me?"

"This is the first time I've had the chance. It's like they're afraid I'll disappear if they ever leave me alone."

"God, Bit. Dawn. I'm sorry. I should've been there."

"You should've.” Dawn glared, then softened. “But I understand why you weren't. You're here now.” Her voice wavered. “Right?"

“Not goin’ anywhere. Promise. Dust before I leave you again.” He paused. “Are you still…?”

“No more pills. The doctor talked about starting therapy, but…. No  _human_  doctor could ever…” Dawn trailed off, gesturing at Spike and herself.

“Glinda might know someone. You should ask her.”

_Bloody buggerin’ hell. Did I just try to talk someone_ into _therapy?_

Dawn stared at him, open-mouthed.

“Did  _you_  just tell  _me_  to  _get therapy_? What weird alternative universe have I walked into?”

Spike shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet Dawn’s incredulous stare. “Jus’ makin’ sure you’re  _not_  doin’ somethin’ coz you think you  _can’t_ ,” he mumbled. Meeting her eyes, he added “an’ I reckon it might be a good idea havin’ someone to talk to who isn’t grievin’.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good.”

Spike and Dawn stared down at their feet, neither sure how to continue.

“Some Big Bad you are,” Dawn chuffed. “All supportive and caring.”

“What can I say, Bit? You bring out the worst in me.”

They grinned at each other, all awkwardness suddenly gone. Spike’s smile slipped off his face.

"Best start making your way home, pet. Be dark soon. Don' want to worry anyone by being out alone."

Dawn didn't really want to leave, but Spike was right. If Willow or Tara got back first, they would freak if she wasn't there. She reluctantly started pulling together her things.

"Can I come back tomorrow?" Dawn tried to sound nonchalant, but she wasn’t yet completely sure of herself around this Spike, the one who held her and made her feel less broken.  _Spike, who was being weirdly responsible._

"Course, Platelet. Welcome anytime." Spike paused. "Might wanna try finishin' the school day next time, though, yeah?" 

He wasn't entirely sure now was the right time to talk about this, but he knew he couldn't set himself up as an escape from the rest of her life. It might help for now, but it wouldn't do her any good long term.

Dawn was shocked he'd even noticed. He'd barely been conscious when she'd arrived. "Why do you care? I thought you'd be all 'skipping is cool'?"

"If you really need a break, yeah. I know there'll be bad days." Spike reached out to stroke Dawn's hair. "But you can't jus' give up on it. Education's important.  _You're_  important. Need to keep feeding that brain of yours, like your belly." Spike pulled her into a hug, resting his chin on her head.

"An' if you're not ready to do it for yourself, there are practical reasons. If you lot are serious about hiding what happened, y'can't draw too much attention to yourself. Miss too many classes? They'll wanna talk to someone, yeah? Who're they gonna talk to?"

Dawn's stomach dropped. She hadn't thought about what would happen if they called Buffy in for a meeting. She could feel the tears starting again.

"Hey now, 's alright. Nothin' gone wrong yet. Still safe. 'S gonna be fine, luv. I've got you."

“Why are you being so responsible all of a sudden? This isn't another body swap or something, is it?”

Spike took in a deep breath.  _Why am I being so responsible? Not like me…._  Except it  _was_ , when it came to taking care of the people he loved. He’d never taken chances with Dru’s safety. This was just a different kind of caring than he was used to. Not so much with the hunting and fighting, and more of the … parenting?

_Bloody hell. Parenting?!_

“No body swaps. Jus’ feels like it’s the right thing to do. What you need.” Spike kissed the top of her head. “Weird, innit?”

Dawn laughed. “Very. But… good-weird, you know?”

“I know." He stood, holding out his hand. "C’mon, Pidge. Home-time.”

Spike pulled Dawn to her feet, put his arm around her shoulders, and they walked comfortably through the mall back towards the tunnels.

Neither noticed the man who had followed them up from the tunnels to the Food Court, and who was following them still.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Scoobies, Spike and the plumbing incident ___

Willow sat in the steadily darkening living room, waiting for Dawn to come home. She was trying to decide whether she was mostly angry because of worrying that something had happened, or because she’d _missed a class_ to be home tonight, and Dawn wasn’t there. Then there was the guilt for the anger. But mostly there was the anger. _Why did I think it was such a good idea for us to move in and take care of Dawn anyway?_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike hoisted Dawn up and out of the sewer exit nearest her house. It was just about dark enough to be safe for him.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked, peering over the edge.

“Will I be welcome?”

“It’s _my_ house.”

“So that’s a no then.”

“You _should_ be welcome.”

“Yeah well.” Spike snorted. “Since when has _that_ been a factor when it comes to me?”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“’Til tomorrow, Niblet.”

Dawn closed the lid, and walked towards the house dragging her feet. She couldn’t see any lights, so she was pretty sure she was the first one home. She really hated being in the house by herself. But she also knew that it was unrealistic to expect anyone to be home waiting for her after school every day. She sighed as she put her key in the lock. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about feeding herself.

_I miss you, Mom._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike had had an itchy feeling at the back of his neck off and on every time he and Dawn had been in the sewers. Like they were being watched. Unfortunately, it being the sewers, he couldn’t smell anything over the stench. And even with vampire eyesight, he could only really see well enough to navigate. His whole body ached and the thought of playing hide and seek was exhausting, so he decided to just go home.

_Best do some bloody tidyin’ if Niblet’s gonna be back tomorrow._

Spike groaned.

_An' put in a soddin’ toilet._

Trying to ignore the prickles, Spike trudged back to Restfield and his crypt, planning the coming battle with his ancient plumbing.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Where ya been, Dawnie?”

Dawn jumped a foot in the air at Willow’s question. The words were all friendly-like, but like so many things Willow said now, there was an edge. Dawn went on the attack.

“God! Were you _trying_ to scare me to death?”

Willow immediately felt guilty. She _hadn’t_ turned the lights on, after all.

“Sorry. I just … I thought you’d have come straight home from school. I thought maybe I could make breakfast-for-dinner? Pancake-y goodness?” Willow plastered a grin on her face, willing herself to stop being hurt and annoyed that Dawn never seemed to look happy to see her.

“I’ve already eaten.”

Willow’s fake smile slipped. “Oh.”

“I’m not five, Willow. I _can_ feed myself.” _Please don’t mention the time I nearly burned down the house making a bacon sandwich._

“Yeah, sure you can.” Willow faltered.

Dawn felt a sudden pang of loss. _Maybe no one knows that story except me anymore._

Willow’s hopes of sharing kitchen fun, and bonding over pancakes, shattered. _Why can’t it be just a little bit easier?_

“I have homework. I’m going to my room.”

“I could help, maybe?” Willow sounded just shy of desperate. She wanted so much to connect with Dawn, to find in her some semblance of the best-friend-y-ness she’d shared with Buffy. But it seemed like every time she tried, it all went wrong. Dawn just kept _rejecting_ her.

Dawn shrugged. “I think I can handle it. But I’ll totally call you if I get stuck on something.” Dawn knew she wouldn’t call. There was just so much _pressure_ from Willow, every conversation was exhausting. Dawn didn’t know what Willow wanted from her, but it always felt like whatever Dawn did was somehow disappointing and wrong. She stomped upstairs, oblivious to how she had just crushed her sister’s best friend.

Willow knew that what she _should_ be doing now was making dinner for her and Tara, but she felt raw after her conversation with Dawn. Deciding distraction was in order, she wandered into the dining room where the Buffy-bot lay in pieces.

“Let’s see if we can’t make you all Humpty-Dumpty-together-again,” she chirped.

Tara arrived home two hours later, exhausted from a very long day, and looking forward to food, bath and bed. But while the bot now had both arms attached, there was no dinner.

“Willow? Sweetie?” Tara asked. “Dinner?”

“Huh?” Willow looked up from her work. “Oh, sorry, I kinda got all distracto-girl. Do you want me to make you something?”

Tara sighed, looking at Willow’s grease-covered hands, and guessed it would be at least half an hour before she would be safe around food. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just have some toast or something. Dawn ate, though, right?”

“Oh yeah, before I came home.”

“At Janice’s?”

“She never said.” Willow frowned. “In fact, she got home after me, and I have no idea where she was.”

Tara sighed again. Today was the first day Xander hadn’t driven Dawn home from school and it wasn’t even a week since she’d stopped taking the pills.  _Just like being back with my family again. Goodbye, me time._

“Dawnie?” She called upstairs.

“What?” Dawn shouted back.

“Could you come down here a minute, please?”

Dawn clomped down the stairs. “What?”

“Where were you today after school?”

Dawn froze. She couldn’t distract Tara like she could Willow. Tara had a mom voice and she wasn’t afraid to use it.

“At the mall.” It wasn’t a _total_ lie.

“Were you with Janice?”

“Um, no?”

“Who, then?”

Dawn squirmed. _Stupid Tara and her stupid mom voice._ Dawn pushed her chin into her chest, let her hair fall over her eyes, and spurted out “I-was-with-Spike.”

_Well_. Tara thought. _That really wasn’t the answer I was expecting._

“With _Spike_?!” Willow was nearly shouting. “What’s _he_ still doing here?”

Tara turned to Willow, making a shushing motion, and then calmly asked Dawn “What did you and Spike do?”

“We talked. Then he took me to dinner at the Food Court.”

Willow and Tara just stared at her, at a total loss for words.

“ _The Food Court_?” Willow finally gasped. Somehow, the normalcy of the fluorescent mall basement just made it so much _ookier_.

“It doesn’t have windows, and it’s easy to get to in daylight. There’s an underground route from his crypt straight to the mall.” Dawn thought the explanation might help make it all sound a bit more normal. Instead, Willow just looked more shocked. _What is it with this family and_ Spike _?_

“He took you through the _sewer_?” Willow squeaked.

Tara sniffed the air and started examining Dawn’s clothes.

“God, Tara, I’ve _changed_ since then! Ewwww.”

Tara shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“After we ate, he brought me home,” Dawn paused, “so _you_ wouldn’t _worry_.” More glaring. “And then I wanted him to come all the way in, but he didn’t think he’d be welcome, so he wouldn’t come.” Dawn crossed her arms. “He was right, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t be welcome in _MY house_?” Dawn’s voice had risen to one of her patented shrieks and she glared at Willow and Tara.

“No more shrieking, please, Dawnie.” Tara murmured. Dawn hardened her glare.

“Why didn’t you tell him about the funeral?” Dawn’s voice dropped to an almost-whisper at this question. She really, really didn’t understand why they hadn’t told him.

Tara and Willow looked at each other, and then back at Dawn.

“It never…” Tara started.

“We didn’t think…” Willow trailed off.

“You should apologise.”

“To _Spike_?” Willow asked.

Tara flinched. She remembered him walking on broken legs to see Buffy.

“Yes, TO SPIKE!” Dawn was shouting again.

Willow frowned. “But it’s _Spike_. Annoying, crude, _soulless vampire_ Spike.”

Dawn huffed and rolled her eyes. “Did Angel know?”

Willow shrugged. “He ran off to some monastery as soon as he heard…. We didn’t know how to contact him.”

“But you woulda?” Dawn pressed.

“Well, yeah, of course, he’s Buffy’s-“

“If you say one true love I’m gonna spew.”

Now Willow flinched. Furrowing her brows, she said firmly, “Buffy would have wanted him to be there.”

“Buffy would have wanted _Spike_ to be there.”

Willow stared at her incredulously. “He chained her up and threatened to feed her to Drusilla! Why would she _ever_ have wanted him at her funeral?”

“Because he nearly died to protect _me_!” Dawn’s face crumpled. “ _I_ wanted him there.”

Tara pulled Dawn into her arms as she started crying. “Oh Dawnie. We’re sorry we couldn’t ask you who you wanted to be there.”

Willow watched her girlfriend comforting Dawn and stamped down the jealousy. _It should be_ me _with Dawn. Not Tara. Not_ Spike _._

“So is he welcome here?” Dawn asked, face still pressed into Tara’s chest.

Willow and Tara stared at each other over Dawn’s head. Willow was mouthing “No” and shaking her head frantically. Tara was more thoughtful. “She’ll go anyway,” she mouthed at Willow. Willow stopped her motions, then mouthed “Not the crypt.” Tara nodded.

“Dawnie, if we agree that Spike can come to see you here, you have to promise us not to go off with him on your own.”

Dawn nodded. “Okay.” Dawn pulled away from Tara. “Can I go back upstairs now?” she asked in a small voice. There had been too many emotions today, and she was suddenly exhausted.

“Okay, sweetie. You go to bed. We’ll … talk to Spike tomorrow, while you’re at school. We’ll sort something out.”

Dawn stomped back upstairs.

“This is a _terrible_ idea,” Willow whispered.

“Maybe.” Tara really didn’t like arguing with Willow. She could feel her stutter threatening, and her stomach was all clenched up. “B-B-Buffy trusted him with her. Why shouldn’t we?”

“Buffy only trusted him with her because of special circumstances! Glory circumstances. Those no longer apply, so no more trustage!”

“If he c-c-comes here, we can check on them. Show up unexpectedly, make sure everything’s ok. If we tell her she can’t see him, she’ll go anyway, you know she will. And then who knows what might happen?”

Willow felt frustrated and sick to her stomach. She could see Tara was getting distressed, and she knew it was because they were arguing. Only just holding herself back from stomping her feet like a two-year-old, Willow capitulated. “Oh Baby, you’re probably right.” _This is all going out of control. It’s going to be really, really bad._ “I just … it’s _Spike_. With the biting and the broken bottle in my face and the threats, and…”

“And the being tortured to keep D-D-awn safe. That’s w-w-w-w-w-what he is for _her_.”

Willow knew in her heart that Tara was right. Dawn had already proven she was quite capable of sneaking off to see Spike. Willow put her arms around Tara and snuggled into her, signalling an end to the argument.

“I wish Buffy were here.”

Tara smiled, relaxing. “Me too.” She gave Willow a quick kiss. “So who’s gonna talk to Spike tomorrow?”

Willow’s head shot up.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Rupert Giles stared into his glass of whiskey. It was time to go.

He wasn’t needed. Wanted, maybe. But he was tired. _So tired_. Leaving the Hellmouth, returning to his books and his research, it all seemed so much easier.

Willow and Xander weren’t _his_. Not like Buffy was. Anya would make sure the Magic Box flourished, probably better than he ever could.

It terrified him how much he hated Dawn. In his head, he knew it would pass, that it was the grief. But every time he looked at her, all he could think was, _Why didn’t she die instead_? And he knew that wasn’t healthy for either of them.

His house was all packed up now. He hadn’t told anyone what he was planning. He didn’t want a fuss. Instead, he’d written letters to Xander and Willow, plus one to Wesley, just asking him to check in periodically.

He knew Anya had noticed his personal collection disappearing from the Magic Box, but he’d been able to distract her so far from asking about it directly. He had a letter for her, too, but it was mostly business. He knew they’d be in semi-regular contact, anyway.

Five years of his life, all in boxes. He’d been so hopeful when he’d first arrived in Sunnydale, all set to save the world. Everything had been so clear: black and white, good and evil, human and monster. He’d been so deluded about what the Slayer would be like. _God save us from American teenagers_.

_And American teenagers save us from gods_. He’d been so deluded about himself.

It was time to go.

He drank the last of his overpriced airport whiskey, picked up his suitcase, and walked towards security. He was certain he would never see Sunnydale again.

Giles never noticed that his taxi driver was sitting three tables away in the bar, or that he followed him to security, and watched him go through.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The decision of who went to see Spike ended up being very easy: Tara had a break in classes from 11 to 4 and Willow didn’t. Both of them were relieved.

Tara had never been to Spike’s crypt before. She’d waited until 2.30, hoping that would be late enough in the day for him to be awake. She knew roughly where it was, but was a bit nervous about getting lost. She needn’t have been. She could hear him bellowing from the cemetery gates.

“Bloody buggerin’ FUCKING EVIL PIPES!”

She could also see what looked like … a burst fire hydrant? shooting straight into the air.

Tara started laughing. She just couldn’t help herself. She started walking towards the Yosemite-wanna-be, when it suddenly stopped.

“THA’S RIGHT, YOU FUCKWIT! WHO’S THE BIG BLOODY BAD NOW?”

Tara had to stop and lean against a tombstone. She was laughing so hard now, she could barely breathe. _What is he doing?_

When she finally reached the crypt, she could see a hole in the ground surrounded by mud, but no other obvious signs of disturbance.

“Spike?” she called out.

There was a long pause.

_Glinda? What could she possibly be doing … Niblet musta talked._

“It’s Tara….”

“Give us a tic, pet. Bit busy just at the mo’.” Spike shouted.

“Are you … plumbing?”

She could hear Spike growling. Then there was clanking. Then banging. Then more swearing. Then something that sounded like … a toilet flushing?

“Thank BLOODY CHRIST for that!”

Another longish pause, then the door was flung open. Spike stood just outside of the reach of the sunlight, covered from head to toe in mud. “What’re you after, then?”

Tara started laughing again. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped out. “It’s not funny.”

Spike’s lips twitched. “Pro’ly is, pet. I imagine I look a right sight.”

Tara coughed out “Big Bad”, before collapsing into giggles again.

Spike just stared at her for a second, then started chuckling along. He stopped when she started turning purple.

“Oi! Breathe, Glinda.”

Tara finally managed to compose herself, but her eyes were still dancing.

“So, I gather Nib told you she was with me yesterday.” Spike started.

Tara nodded, then looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about the funeral.”

Spike took a step back, shocked.

“’S alright. ‘Spect you thought I’d left,” he mumbled.

“We should have tried.”

“Well. Didn’t expect to hear that. ‘Preciate it.” They nodded at each other, warily.

“About Dawn.…”

Spike stiffened. “Is this where you tell me to stay away from her or be staked?” He was looking and sounding very scary, all of a sudden, even with all the mud, and Tara remembered she was dealing with a Master vampire.

“N-no. This is where we try to work out a … a custody arrangement?”

Spike sat down very suddenly against the wall.

“A what now?”

“Dawn needs taking care of. She wants you to be a part of that. I take it … that’s something _you_ want, too?”

Spike nodded. “I promised Buffy I’d keep her safe. I intend to keep my promise.”

“And plumbing is a part of that?” Tara asked teasingly.

Spike looked away, embarrassed. “Crypts don’t come with ... facilities.”

Tara gasped. _Wow. One visit from Dawn, and he’s building a bathroom?_

“Didn’ want it to be … difficult … when she's here.”

“Oh, Spike.” _This is so not what I expected_. Tara decided to take a chance. “Willow and I are almost never home between 3 and 7.”

“She hates being home alone.”

Tara’s mouth dropped open. _How does he know that?_

“W-we thought, maybe, you could … be there for her, when she comes home from school? Until one of us gets home? Maybe … make sure she eats?”

Now Spike’s mouth dropped open.

“An’ you lot’ll trust _me_ with that?”

“I can’t speak for everyone, but I think it might be what’s best for Dawn.” As Tara said the words, she realised they were true. She and Willow _couldn’t_ be there all the time. Spike could. And, more importantly, _wanted to_.  _Willow and I don't. Not really._

Spike let out a breath. “Done.”

Tara fumbled in her purse. “I’ve got a key for you … somewhere.”

Spike flinched. “Might already have one o’ them….”

Tara looked at him. “Right. Well. Um.”

“Sorry?”

Tara couldn’t believe Spike could go from swearing at pipes to Master vampire to ashamed little boy in such a short period of time. _Such a strange man, er, vampire._

“Well. I guess I’ll see you later tonight?”

“Yeah.”

Tara left him, sitting just inside the crypt door, staring into space.

The man watching from the shadows smiled. This … custody arrangement … would make things easier.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _More Scoobies, making decisions_

Xander was humming away happily as he waited for his doughnuts to be packaged up _._   _Today is a very good day_. He'd fixed a problem at the site he'd thought would take at least another week. The Dawnster had been almost normal on the way to school. And this morning he and Anya had ... _Maybe not think about that too much_ right _now while in such a very public place_.

And now he was buying doughnuts for a Scooby meeting.  _First really-real Scooby meeting since The Talk. It'll be so good to start getting back to normal again._

He breezed through the door. Anya was behind the counter, staring at a piece of paper in her hand like it might spontaneously combust.

"I bring doughnuts for your eating pleasure, for I am Xander, the Doughnut King!"

Anya just stared at him.

"What? Do I have something on my face?"

"Giles is gone."

"Wha-huh?"

"Giles is gone. Back to England." Anya paused, letting a radiant smile blossom. "He's leaving me in charge of the store." Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper. " _I'll get half of the profits_."

Xander goggled. "But, why would he leave?"

Anya huffed. "Maybe because he killed Ben to save Buffy, and then she died anyway?" 

Anya understood that Xander would be sad about Giles leaving, and that celebrating her happiness about the Magic Box would have to wait. _Hopefully, only until tomorrow_. But _surprise_? Giles had barely spoken since Buffy died, and he'd only come to Sunnydale because of her. Wanting to get away could hardly come as _that_ much of a surprise.

Xander was opening and closing his mouth. _But today was such a_ good _day_.

"He left a letter for you, Xander. Maybe that will make it less surprising." Anya pointed at the table, where there were two letters: one for Xander and one for Willow.

Xander sat down and opened his letter. _Sure are a lot of words, even for Giles_. But the meaning was very simple. _Sorry. Too painful. Call me if there's an apocalypse._

 _This isn't how it's supposed to be! There should be pluckiness! And stoically helping each other through our grief. Not more_ leaving.

 _Why did you have to die, Buffy? Why couldn’t it have been the Bleached Wonder? Or—_ Xander cut himself off before he could think who else could have died. _Bad thoughts. Very, very bad thoughts_.

The bell snapped Xander to attention. Willow and Tara had arrived.

Their stiff postures and overly calm faces said they'd moved past Arguing and were well into Tense Silence, but Xander didn't notice and Anya didn't care.

"Giles is gone," Anya chirped. Still desperately trying not to grin, she added, "And I am now a full partner in the Magic Box." She wriggled a little to stop herself from jumping up and down with glee.

Willow was as shocked as Xander. Tara marginally less so.

"There's a letter." Anya pointed helpfully.

Willow joined Xander at the table, and read her letter. Without speaking, they swapped letters and read again.

"So we get to call Giles if there's an apocalypse. Great." Willow laid her head on her arms. "Why would he leave us?"

"Doesn't the letter explain?" Anya asked, rolling her eyes.  _I really thought Willow was a_ bit _more perceptive than Xander._

Tara, who had stayed just inside the doorway, went to Willow's side and started stroking her hair.

"He was really unhappy, Sweetie. I think it hurt just being here."

"Well, yeah! We're all hurting! But it's _Giles_! He's all ... all _adult_  and _responsible_  … and _he abandoned us_!"

"Unless there's an apocalypse, 'cause we can totally call him if that happens," Xander added bitterly.

"He wouldn't have left if we brought Buffy back!" As soon as she said it, Willow screwed her eyes shut and put her hands over her mouth. _Oh god oh god oh god oh god. Inside voice, Willow!_

Every head in the room swivelled to stare at Willow.

"Oops? Did I say that out loud?"

Eyes wide, they all nodded.

"Well … I do kinda think we should try to bring her back."

All Anya’s joy drained out of her. _Resurrection spells are_ never _a good idea_.

Willow's heart was racing. Ever since the tower, she'd been thinking about magical solutions for an outcome she saw as _wrong_. Now, with Dawn… And _Spike_? And Giles! All she could think of was that everything would be _right_ again if she could only bring Buffy back.

"I mean, it's not like she died of natural causes, right?"

Anya opened her mouth to disagree, but looking at the hope shining out of Xander's face, she closed it again. _Not like they'll listen to me, anyway_.

Tara and Xander were nodding.

"And, I mean, she's probably in some hell dimension. Like Angel was."

Anya rolled her eyes. _After growing up on the Hellmouth, you'd think they'd know more about this stuff! The_ fall _killed Buffy. And she's a hero! She's probably in some hero retirement dimension. All drinking and fighting and lots and lots of sex._  Anya was distracted for a moment by thoughts of the sex. _So ignorant!_

"So, really, we'd be _saving_ her." Willow gave a small smile.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Gin.”

“You’re cheating!”

“Of course I’m bloody cheatin’. Evil vampire here!”

Dawn rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, missy. You’re cheatin’ just as much.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Not!”

“Are!”

“Not!”

“Bloody well are!” Spike glared. “I can smell it when you lie.”

“Ewww! That’s so gross!”

“An’ your heart rate goes up when you’re palmin’ cards.” Spike gave her a solemn look. “Need to keep it nice ’n’ even, Bit, or you ruin the cheat.”

“I was not-“

“Vampire. C'n hear it.”

Dawn growled.

“Pro’ly fool a human,” Spike continued thoughtfully. “Slight of hand’s comin’ along right nicely.”

Dawn grinned. “So … how do I keep my heart rate even?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow had them at "saving Buffy". And she knew it.

Sure, there was the requisite angsty circling around the issue that was so important to the Scooby process. Then, Xander and Tara pretended for a while that theythought it was a really bad, dangerous idea. But after being saved so many times, the image of being _her_ saviours for once was just too powerful. Besides, fresh from defeating Glory, the threat of an apocalypse seemed less frightening – and it was _June_! Hellmouth summer downtime.

Anya, who really did think it was a bad, dangerous idea, gave up trying to argue once she realised they’d stopped paying attention. The ‘it’s June’ argument was not without merit. _If we do it over the summer, it can’t be too awful._

Once Xander and Tara allowed their token protests to be defeated, the rest of the evening was spent on research and pizza. They didn’t find the answers, but they were making progress. The atmosphere was hopeful. Spending time together, researching and eating takeout, with the future prospect of performing some as-yet-unknown ritual to bring Buffy back: it was all of the good. Familiar. Safe.

Then, just as they were getting ready to leave, Xander asked, "So where's Dawnie?"

Tension filled the room, and Willow glared at Tara. "She's with her new babysitter."

An image of Spike changing diapers suddenly popped into Tara's head. She stifled a giggle, then sobered. _This is not going to be a fun conversation_. "Well. Spike is going to help us look after Dawn from now on. He'll stay with her after school, make her dinner, and ... teenager-sit? I guess ... if we're out at night."

" _Spike_!?” Xander squawked. “Soulless vampire, tried to kill us FOR YEARS Spike! Stop me when I get to something that would make him a good choice to _look after Dawn_?"

Tara sighed. "Can _you_ be at the house when she comes home from school every day? Didn’t they threaten to fire you if you didn’t stop taking off early to pick her up?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

"Willow or I would have to go part time or quit school completely to be able to be home with her. That's not something either of us is ready to do." Tara looked at Willow. "You know we're not."

Willow shrugged petulantly. She'd already had this argument, and had grudgingly accepted Spike's new position in their lives. _Don't have to help convince Xander too_.

"We’re both gonna need to be full time this summer to make up for what we missed while I was… all brain-sucked.” Suddenly, the floor of the Magic box became fascinating. “Anyway. Summer is the busiest time of year for you, Xander. It’s only going to get harder. We just can't do it on our own. Not without making some big sacrifices. Spike _really wants_ to be there for her. And he doesn't have to give up anything to do it."

Anya was dumbfounded. _Not give up anything? A_ Master vampire _looking after a_ human child _? That’s giving up_ everything _. This is ... unthinkable_. _And they can't even see it. So ignorant!_

"But what if he hurts her? How can we take that risk?"

Tara considered telling Xander that Spike and Dawn were already spending time together, and that she was safe and unharmed. _At least I hope she is_. _Maybe better not risk mentioning that_....

"Xander, Spike was tortured nearly to death to protect Dawn.” Anya couldn't hold back her scorn. “Why would you be worried he'd hurt _her_?"

"That was when he was all with the macking on Buffy. Without her to impress, he won’t care about Dawn! I mean, hello! Soulless vampire!"

“Well,” Willow started. “There was that time with Angelus….”

“THAT DIDN’T REALLY HAPPEN!”

“But we all remember it! And that was before the truce, even! There must be a reason we have that memory….” _I can’t believe I’m actually defending Spike_. _But he really has always seemed to care about Dawnie…._

Xander huffed. “I still don’t see why we should trust him with Dawn. He’s dangerous!”

“I’m more worried about what he might do to _us_ ,” Anya grumbled. “I’m not ready to die! Not when I’m about to make so much money.”

Tara’s stomach gave a little lurch. The whole plumbing thing earlier today had convinced her that Spike would never hurt Dawn. But she’d never thought about her own safety, or Willow’s. _He’s got free run of the house_ ….

“Th-th-there’s still the chip,” she faltered.

“That didn’t stop him from helping Adam! All anyone’d have to do is dangle chip removal in front of his fangy face and he’d betray us in a second.” Xander leaned back, arms folded across his chest, confident this was the winning argument.

“Okay, Xander, maybe you’re right.” Tara said slowly. “But – I’m just trying to be practical here – if Spike doesn’t help with Dawn, what do we do instead? Now Giles is gone, it really is just the four of us.”

“Dawnie could … she could come to the Magic Box after school and stay with Ahn!”

Anya’s jaw dropped. “No! No, Xander! I can’t look after Dawn while I’m working! And all her incessant crying will scare away my _paying customers_.”

Tara glared at Anya. “She’s mostly stopped crying now.”

“You’ve said that before,” Anya bit back. “And what do I do if she doesn’t show up? Or slips out? I can’t just leave the store to chase after her every time she gets hormonal.”

Xander felt trapped. Anya wasn’t wrong. Trying to keep an eye on Dawn all the time was impossible without more help. Refusing to meet Tara’s eyes, he ground out “Can’t think of another way.”

Willow touched Xander’s shoulder. “Hey, just think: once Buffy’s back, there’ll be no more need for Spike to hang around, right? I mean, _Buffy_ will be all with the taking care of Dawnie, and … and probably stake him first thing!”

Xander brightened. “Yeah! Total stakage!”

Tara and Anya shared a look. If it was difficult for four adults to take care of a teenager, how would it possibly be easier with only one adult? Not to mention how Dawn might feel about it.

Pushing her reservations aside, Tara asked, “So are we agreed? Spike’s going to take care of Dawn?”

Reluctantly, Xander, Willow and Anya all nodded.

Tara let out a sigh of relief. _I hope this isn’t the biggest mistake of my life. But I don’t see how else we can do it. You don’t build bathrooms for people you don’t care about, right? And hurting any of us would just hurt Dawn, wouldn’t it?_

_I wonder what they’ve been doing all night? I really hope the house isn't trashed. Hyperactive vampire plus hormoonal teenager is not a healthy combination for houses._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike was stretched out on the sofa, idly watching television with a beer in his hand, when Tara and Willow came through the front door. His boots were by the door, and his duster was hanging off the newel post.

Willow was taken aback by how … comfortable … he looked. Domestic, even. Like it was _his_ house. _This is too ooky_. One of his socks had a hole in the toe. _Who would have thought Spike has socks?_

“Hey, Spike.”

“Red. Glinda.”

Tara was mostly relieved the house didn’t look like a bomb site.  _Can Spike even cook? Probably should have asked about that…._ Tara wandered into the kitchen. _Clearly, he can do dishes_. _And – judging by the dishes – he can cook too. Wow._

“Niblet’s asleep. Guess I’ll be off.” Spike swigged the last of his beer, went to the kitchen, and placed it quietly and carefully in the recycling bin. Willow and Tara just watched him.

_Way ooky. Spike recycles?_

“What?”

Willow and Tara put on their best innocent faces. “Nothing,” they chorused.

Spike grunted. _Bloody witches_. He shrugged into his duster, and pulled on his boots. Then he reached into the closet and pulled out a sword.

Willow frowned. “Is that Buffy’s?” Willow made a mental note to catalogue Buffy’s weapons first thing tomorrow.

“No! ‘S mine.” Faced with disbelieving stares. Spike sighed. “Hers is similar, but shorter. Different pommel design. We have ... had ... the same armourer.”

“Why did you bring a sword?” Willow asked.

Spike just looked at her. “Why do you bloody think?” _Daft bint_.

“Are you _patrolling_?” Willow looked horrified.

Spike glared at her, then mumbled, “Gotta get in m’spot of violence somehow.”

And with that, he strode out the door.

Tara and Willow stared at the closed door for a few seconds, then wandered over to sit on the sofa.

 “I guess I just thought everything was still keeping away 'cause of Glory. It hasn’t been _that_ long.” Willow shrugged, frowning.  “And, you know,” she waved her hand, “June!”

“I never even thought about it…. What with moving and Dawn and…. Why would he?” Tara could just about understand Dawn. Spike had proved time and again that he really cared about her. But _patrolling_? Fighting other demons? That just made no sense. _He’s a vampire! What would make him do that when there’s no Buffy? And no apocalypse?_

“This is just too weird. We had to _pay_ him to help us!”

“Not lately,” Tara corrected absently.

“Well, yeah, but…. A vampire taking over for the vampire slayer? It’s like, alternate-universe-weird. There hasn’t been another vengeance demon, has there?”

“Why would a vengeance demon want a vampire to patrol?”

“True.” Willow thought for a moment. “Hey, maybe he just likes fighting, and, and now that he can’t, y’know, grr, argh with people, it’s all about the _demon_ fighting instead?”

“Maybe. That makes more sense than a vengeance demon.”

“He and Buffy _were_ patrolling together, sometimes, before.”

“Yeah….” Tara gasped. “Oh, Willow. What happens when the demons and vampires find out there isn’t a Slayer on the Hellmouth anymore?”

Willow thought for a moment. “I hate to say it, but if Spike really is out patrolling every night, I’m not too worried they’ll find out. I mean, the Hellmouth always seems to shut down over the summer. Buffy’s been gone before, a coupla times, and it went ok. If I can get the bot up and running again, even easier. She – it – can patrol with Spike, to keep up appearances…. And we’ll be bringing Buffy back soon anyway. It’ll be all good!”

“That actually sounds manageable.”

“Yeah. Still kinda weird, though.”

“Totally.” Tara nodded.

“Can we have bed and cuddles now?”

Tara nodded enthusiastically, and the two women grinned at each other, feeling in control again for the first time all day.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

_“You must protect The Key.”_

_“Protect the Key. Right. I know! We'll do it together. Far, far from here.”_

_“Many have died…. Many more will, if you don't keep it safe.”_

_“How? What is it?”_

_“The Key is energy. It's a portal. It opens the door. For centuries it had no form at all, with my brethren its only keepers. Then the abomination found us. We had to hide The Key. We gave it form, moulded its flesh, made it human. And sent it to you.”_

_“Dawn.”_

_“She is The Key.”_

_“You put that thing in my home.”_

_“We knew the Slayer would ... protect.”_

_“My memories…. My mom's....”_

_“We built them.”_

_“Then unbuild them. This is my life you're –“_

_“You cannot abandon—”_

_“I didn't ask for this. I don't even know what ... what is she?”_

_“Human. Human, now, and helpless. Please, she is an innocent in this, and she needs you.”_

_“She's not my sister.”_

_“She doesn't know that.”_

It was the dream again. Ever since Brother Radan’s death, every night was the same. He’d hoped coming to the Hellmouth would make sleeping easier, but it hadn’t made any difference. Why would Radan send _him_ his last moments? Of all people! _This is not my fight! The Beast is dead. The Key should be safe now, even without the Slayer’s protection. Who else could want The Key but the Beast? It’s just another human now._

 _But Radan did not have time to tell the Slayer much. And Abbot Michal was tricksy. Radan may not have been correct in what he told her. Maybe_ that _is my purpose here._

_At the very least, they should know about the father._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Spike's new life_

After a good month of nothing but fledges, something  _interesting_ had finally turned up on patrol. Spike felt its claw go into his back, curving around and behind his shoulder blade, narrowly missing his heart.

He closed his eyes briefly in relief.  _Least ‘m not wearin’ the duster._

The arm attached to the claw started pulling back, but it was stuck, snagged on something inside him. Spike gave a violent lurch to one side, somehow managing to separate the claw from the arm, but leaving it stuck in his back.

He gagged on the stench of demon blood that was suddenly spurting out of the stump. He could feel his nose hairs disintegrating, even after he stopped breathing. His opponent started howling in pain.

“Don’ like losin’ bits, do ya, mate?”

Spike stopped the other, still-clawed, arm just before it reached his face, and wrenched  _that_ claw off. The blood burned as it covered him.

Gushing blood and in immense pain, the demon lost interest in fighting. Using the claw he’d just liberated, Spike sliced its neck halfway open, grabbed the vertebrae through the hole, and wrenched its head clean off. It didn’t dust. Spike studied it for a moment.

“That enough t’kill you? Or you gonna go all Black Knight on me?”

 _Lessee if you’re flammable._ He got out a cigarette and his lighter, and sat back on a tombstone. He gagged when he tried to inhale.

 _Oh god the stench._ He glared at the corpse.  _Tha’s it. Not breathin’ again ‘til you’re ashes, mate._

He tossed his lit cigarette into the pool of blood nearest the neck stump and grinned when it lit up like gasoline.

While he watched the demon burning, Spike reached around to try to pull the claw out of his back. Unfortunately, it really was stuck on something, and he couldn’t pull it out from any of the angles he could reach on his own.  _Bugger_.

Once the corpse started looking fragile, he threw dirt on the flames to put them out and stomped on the demon until it was dust.

 _Bloody good fight, that was_.

Vaguely remembering some wall hooks in the Magic Box training room that he thought might work, Spike started walking.  _Should pro’ly confirm what manner o’ beastie that was, while’m at it. Not often I see one I don’ recognise…._

When Spike arrived at the Magic Box, his skin was still burning from the demon blood, so he had a quick shower. The water was agony on his back, but at least he could breathe again. He’d forgotten  _why_ he’d stopped breathing a couple of times on the way over, and he was convinced he’d lost cartilage the last time he inhaled.

The hooks were a bit lower than he’d remembered, so he was stuck doing the limbo trying to get one of them around the edge of the claw. Every time he missed, he caught skin at the edges of the wound.  _Fuckety fuck FUCK this hurts!_

He was struck, suddenly, with the loss of the Slayer. He could imagine her helping him with this. Laughing with him about it. She fought weird demons every day; she’d understand.

He couldn’t imagine even  _asking_ the Slayerettes. For all that they’d decided to let him into Dawn’s life this summer, he knew it was pure selfishness on their parts. With him living at Revello Drive during the week and only going back to his crypt at weekends, the Scoobies could not only go on with their normal lives five days out of seven, but also ignore him completely and still feel smug for being with his Niblet on weekends. Although he couldn’t think why he’d ever  _want_ to spend time with them, the principle of the thing grated.

They had never asked about his patrols. Not once.

His back really hurt, and his attempts to snag a hook were getting clumsier.  _Everything_ was now slick with blood, which didn’t help. It was also almost full daylight and he was exhausted. Ashamed of quite how much he wished someone would come and help him, he slid down onto the floor.  _Jus’ rest for a minute_. _Got time_. He curled into a ball, leaning his shoulder and knees against the wall so nothing was touching his back, and closed his eyes.

Anya found him there, asleep, when she arrived to open.

“Spike! What are you doing to my store?”

His raised his head sleepily. “Got a claw stuck in m’back. Can’t reach to pull it out.” He waved at the hooks over his head. “Thought I could hook it.”

Anya tried very hard not to laugh. “If you stand up, I’ll pull it out for you.”

Spike looked at her warily, but stood up.

“Brace yourself.” Anya smirked at him, and gestured for him to turn around.

She grasped the claw, jiggling it around to get it unstuck, before ripping it out with a wet sucking plop.

Spike sagged against the wall. Holding back the whimpers had been almost as painful as Anya’s ministrations.

“You’re welcome,” Anya said, moving to hand over the claw. Taking her first good look at it, she gasped. “Where did you find this?”

Spike gave her his best ‘how stupid are you?’ look. “Its former owner decided he di’n’ like me much.”

“This is from a Krolgarth demon,” she said hungrily. “I can sell it for  _thousands_.  _Where did you find it and can you bring me more_?”

Spike sauntered over to where he’d left the other claw. “Like this one, y’mean?” Anya snatched at it. “Ah-ah-ah! Down, girl. Mine.”

Anya pouted. “Why won’t you give it to me? I can get so much money for it!”

“Think you mean  _we_  can get so much money for it. ‘M hardly gonna risk my life fightin’ somethin’ jus’ to give away the proceeds, am I?”

Anya glared at him. “I didn’t  _have_ to tell you it was valuable, you know. And how would you even find a buyer?”

“What say we agree to split the proceeds?”

“Split how?”

“Ten per cent finder’s fee?”

Anya’s eyes narrowed. “I want fifty.”

“You’re off your soddin’ rocker! I took all the risks!” Spike crossed his arms.

“Forty-five fifty-five?”

“I might  _consider_ going as high as twelve.”

Anya gasped. “Never!”

“Wha’ do I get out of it tha’s worth more’n twelve?”

Anya looked thoughtful for a moment. “I have an idea.”

“’M listenin’.”

“From time to time, I get … speculative … orders. Requests. If you could fulfil some of those orders…. I think we could make serious money.”

“Twelve per cent’s a more’n fair commission for you as broker.”

Anya, scowling, clutched the still-bloody claw to her chest. “I will accept twenty. But I get to keep all the profit from this one. I pulled it out of you; that makes it mine.”

“How much work’re you gonna get me, Demon Girl?”

“We’re the biggest magic supplier on the West Coast and demons think the Hellmouth is catnip.” Anya shrugged. “How much work do you want?”

Spike nodded. “Long’s you keep that work comin’, you’ve got a deal. Twenty per cent commission, plus one claw.”

Anya glowed. “I’ll draw up a contract.” She reached for the second claw.

“Not ‘til we’ve signed.”

Anya pouted. “Don’t you trust me?”

Spike laughed. “Why should I? D’you trust me?”

“Well, no, but….”

“Jus’ draw up the contract,” Spike sighed.

“Well, you – you just clean up the mess you made.” Anya stalked back towards the front of the shop.

“Reckon you might wanna drop that bloody claw you’re clutchin’,” Spike called out after her. “‘Fore it scares off all the customers.”

Anya squawked, and ran for a mirror.

“This is silk!” She wailed.

Spike snickered. He felt  _much_ better.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn’s morning went less well. As soon as she woke up, she knew it was going to be one of the bad days. Bad days were … survivable … during the week, when she could go home and Spike was there. He always knew if she needed to talk, or be quiet, or cry, and he could make hot chocolate that tasted just like her mom’s.

Weekends were harder. There were  _expectations_ on weekends.

“Dawnie?” Willow called. “Xander’s here! And we made pancakes!”

Dawn groaned, and curled into her duvet.  _Don’t wanna get up yet_.

“C’mon Dawn-monster!” Xander called. “It’s weekend fun-time!”

Dawn dragged herself out of bed.  _They can just deal with my pyjamas. Can’t face getting up properly yet_. She stomped down the stairs. When she reached the kitchen, Tara was making pancakes and Willow was mock-slapping Xander as he tried to steal from the growing stack.

 _They all look so happy. How can they? Why can’t_ I _?_  Dawn could feel tears coming and a lump forming at the back of her throat.

Willow saw her misery and, looking stricken, called out, “Oh Dawnie, don’t cry!”

Dawn’s self-pity flipped to rage. “Why shouldn’t I cry? Huh?” She built up to an ear-splitting shriek. “How  _dare_ you try to tell me what I should be feeling!” She turned around and ran back upstairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

The kitchen went silent. Willow’s face crumpled. “I wasn’t trying to tell her what to feel! I just wanted to help.”

“We know, Will. She’s … some days are worse than others.” As Dawn’s frequent chauffeur, Xander was familiar with the days when she really couldn’t cope. “It’s best to just let her be when she’s like this.”

“She hates me.”

“Oh, Sweetie, it’s not you,” Tara said gently. “She’s fourteen and grieving. She hates  _everybody_.”

Xander swallowed a laugh.

 _She doesn’t seem to hate you two_ , Willow thought resentfully.  _Or Spike_. “Maybe we could start inviting Janice to weekend brunches? Dawn might be happier if she had someone her age around.”

“Bad idea,” Xander said. “Janice,” he held his fingers in air-quotes, “thinks dead mothers are catching.” He let his arms drop. “They haven’t really spoken since Joyce died.”

 _Why didn’t I know that?_  Willow wondered, hurt.

“Plus we’d all have to pretend Buffy’s just out somewhere if Janice were here – or anyone else from school. I don’t think Dawn wants to spend time with people who don’t know right now,” Tara added.

“Poor Dawnie.” Willow tried, again, to bury the hurt.  _I can be all sympathy-girl. I can_.

“I’m gonna go grocery shopping after we’re done breakfast,” Tara said. “Did Spike add anything to the list before he left last night?”

Willow grabbed a pad from the fridge. “Yup. I’ll read it out to you. First is pickles.” She made a face. “Ewww. Does anyone but Spike eat those?”

“Dawn does, sometimes.”

“The Xan-man has also been known to indulge in a bit of gherkin-y goodness.” Xander paused. “That sounded so much less gay in my head.”

Willow slapped him, giggling. “Hey!”

 _Pickles_ , Tara added to her own list. “What else?”

“Cocoa powder, mini marshmallows, Dawn’s ice cream –”

“Pecan maple, right Sweetie?”

“Ya-huh.”

Xander wondered if he should go check on Dawn.  _Out of ice cream_ and  _hot chocolate? In no way is that of the good._

“Bacon.” Willow paused. “Mmmmm bacon.”

When Xander looked confused, Tara said solemnly “Spike can do things with bacon that shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Oh, and that sauce he makes? With the cream?” They groaned.

“He  _cooks_?” Xander squawked.

“I hate to admit it, but the first thing we do when we get home now is check the fridge for leftovers.” Willow sighed, rubbing her belly.

“I don’t even know how to begin to respond to that.”

“Is there more after bacon?” Tara asked.

“Yup.”

“Spike, soulless vampire, cooks for you.”

“Oh, he doesn’t cook for  _us_ ,” Tara said. “He cooks for  _Dawn_. But sometimes, if we’re lucky, he makes too much and there are leftovers.”

“And they’re ... tasty?”

“You have no idea how tasty.” Tara motioned to Willow to continue with the list.

“Next is – and I quote  – ‘that sugary shite Dawn insists is food’. I think he means Froot Loops Marshmallow.” She paused. “ _More_ Weetabix? Jeesh! And that’s it.”

“You know he puts it in his blood,” Xander said.

“Froot Loops?” Willow asked.

“No, doofus, Weetabix. Giles told me.”

Willow and Tara made ‘ewww’ faces at each other.

“That explains why he gets through so much of it. We figured eating a healthy, rich-in-fibre breakfast cereal was just one of the many ways in which Spike is way up there on the weirdness scale.”

“I guess it still is. I mean… Weetabix in blood  _can’t_ be standard practice, what with it not being generally found in veins and all.”

“Can you imagine  _Angel_ putting cereal in his blood?” The girls giggled.

“Or chewing?” More giggles.

“So it’s really working? Spike living here?” Xander asked.

Willow made an embarrassed grimace. “Yeah. It really is.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

He was sorry the Slayer had not survived the Beast.

He’d been watching the Key and the people who surrounded it since just after her sacrifice, trying to assess its safety in her absence.

The red-haired witch was immensely powerful, but he didn’t think the Key was in any danger from her or the blonde witch. He believed they might even protect it to an extent, but only if they thought they could afford the cost. They were not  _family_.

He didn’t think the vampire would count costs, even now, without full knowledge of their relationship. That, in itself, fascinated him. He had initially assumed he’d have to tell them what he knew in order to gain the vampire’s support. But when he heard them making their “custody arrangement”, he decided to wait.

He dismissed the two humans – they were not warriors and had no magic. The Watcher’s knowledge and resources might have been helpful, but he seemed to have abandoned the Key completely.  _Pity_.

He still wasn’t sure what he would tell them when he made first contact. All he knew so far was that Brother Radan hadn’t had all the facts, and that the Key might not be as human or as helpless as they had assumed. But he needed to know more before he approached them. For now, he would watch, and wait until he discovered what it was Radan hadn’t told the Slayer – or hadn’t  _known_ to tell the Slayer – and why he had dragged him into this mess.

 _I once swore to destroy the Key. Why would the Order of Dagon choose_ me  _to protect it?_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The first delivery of October to the Magic Box was a personal one for Anya: the urn of Osiris, the last ingredient missing for the resurrection spell.

Anya had agreed to the plan. She’d helped at every research party, and – when they finally found a spell Willow thought she could make work – it had been Anya sourcing most of the ingredients.

But it had taken  _so long_. It wasn’t summer anymore, and their lives had all been on hold for months now, and everyone had built up all sorts of expectations about how things would be once Buffy was back.

Anya was getting increasingly nervous about the consequences of performing such a dark spell. She also suspected Willow lacked the power – and experience – to do it correctly. What if Buffy came back ... wrong?

As soon as she’d bought the urn, Anya found herself hoping it wouldn’t arrive, or that it would be broken in transit, or turn out to be fake. But as soon as she opened the package, she knew. Reluctantly, she started making calls.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Every night, before Willow went to sleep, she went through a catechism of what would happen once Buffy was back. It was pure fantasy – Willow knew that – but she controlled every part of the fantasy, and it was happy, and it made real life a bit easier to bear.

First, Buffy would be overjoyed to be back, and so grateful to Willow for rescuing her. She’d be cured of her death wish, and confident that she could take on anything after defeating Glory. She’d be impressed by Willow’s powers and they’d be more like equals now, so no more ‘Willow the sidekick’. Their friendship would be even stronger than before. Like sisters.

Dawn would be happy again, so there would be no more outbursts, or crying, or shrieking. And because it was  _Willow_ who had made her happy again, Dawn would finally recognise that she really needed and wanted her in her life. Dawn and Buffy and Willow would be like sisters all together, and although of course Dawn would still really  _like_ Tara and Xander, she wouldn’t be quite as close to them as she was to Willow and Buffy.

When Buffy was back, there would be no  _need_ for Spike. He’d move out of the house, for sure. And Dawnie wouldn’t miss him, not with Buffy back.

Even in her fantasy, Willow didn’t  _really_ want him staked – he still had the chip so staking would be Wrong – but she imagined him leaving Sunnydale. He made things uncertain and messy. He thought he was in love with Buffy. It would be better if he weren’t around anymore.

And finally, Tara: ever since Glory, she’d been all avoido-girl with anything magical. But doing the resurrection spell would restore all her lost confidence in witchcraft, and they could go back to the way they were before, when they’d made magic together almost every day. Willow would be able to stop hiding her magical explorations and share everything with Tara again.

Willow knew that not all of these things were going to happen. A very, very small part of her knew that probably none of them would. But she hoped. And the hope helped her sleep.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

When the Scooby gang met to examine the urn, Anya tentatively suggested to Xander and Tara that maybe they shouldn’t go through with the resurrection spell after all. They didn't immediately nix the idea, so she started talking through some of her fears. But just when she thought she might be getting somewhere, Willow arrived.

“It’s time to stop talking. Tomorrow night, we’re bringing Buffy back.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Resurrection, part 1_

Spike was pacing in the living room when Willow and Tara came home.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Tara said. “Class ran over. Dawnie in bed already?”

Spike nodded. “’M off, then.” He moved towards the door.

“Oh, hey, Spike!” Willow called. “Take the Buffy-bot out with you tonight?”

Spike flinched. “Already?”

“She only got a _little_ broken last time. It’s been two weeks.”

_Two weeks of bloody heaven_.

“Fine,” he sighed and stomped upstairs, sounding remarkably like Dawn.

He opened the door to Buffy’s room, where the bot lay on the bed. As he leaned over to unplug her from the charger, she reached up and caressed his face. “Hi Spike! I missed you.”

He jerked away, bellowing “She’s not fuckin’ fixed, Willow!”

“What? Is she doing that twitchy stutter-y thing again?”

Spike sighed as the bot trailed him downstairs. “You said you got all … _that_ … out of her programming,” he said softly.

Willow cringed. “Sorry? I’ll take a look tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Spike growled.

“Try not to let her get electrocuted again!” Tara called out after them as they left.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“You’re telling me there’s no Slayer in Sunnydale?”

“Nowhere like the Hellmouth for a party.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow whispered the incantation over Dawn’s sleeping form. Her eyes fluttered open, but remained blank and unfocussed.

“Okay, Dawnie, put on your shoes and a coat. We’re gonna go for a little walk.”

Dawn did as she was told, and followed Willow out of her room and downstairs.

“Are you sure this is safe, Will?”

“Oh yeah, safe as – safe things. Besides, what other choice do we have? Spike’s out patrolling. He’d be suspicious if we asked him to stay in, and we can’t leave her alone at night. We _have_ to bring her with us.”

“I guess.”

“She’ll be doing everything we’re doing. Only sleeping.”

“You don’t think she should be awake for this?”

“We agreed not to tell her, what with the whole almost-raising-Joyce-from-the-dead-thing. Too traumatic.”

“I remember! It just seems … wrong.”

“Bringing Buffy back is wrong! It’s against all the laws of nature and practically impossible, but it’s what we agreed to do. No turning back now.” Willow looked away and shivered a little.

“You didn’t have to … _do_ anything, did you Sweetie? To make this work?”

“Oh no, Baby, of course not,” Willow lied.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Let’s ride.”

And the hellions saddled up, and headed for Sunnydale.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

At the stroke of midnight, the Scoobies and Dawn were seated in a circle at the foot of the tower, each holding a burning candle.

“Osiris, keeper of the gate, master of all fate, hear us.” Willow dipped a finger in the urn where it lay to her side, and stroked the mixture over her forehead and cheeks. Dipping in again, she traced a symbol on the ground then poured the contents of the urn over the symbol. “Before time and after, before knowing and nothing. Accept our offering.” Deep slashes appeared along Willow’s arms and her blood dropped onto the already wet ground. The Scoobies gasped. “Know our prayer.” It came out of Willow’s mouth, but it wasn’t her voice anymore.

“It’s okay,” Tara whispered. “She warned me this would happen. She’s being tested.”

“Osiris! Let her cross over!”

The Scoobies could hear chittering all around them, like a bad ‘80s horror film, only … _actually_ frightening instead of funny. Willow’s eyes were glowing green, and there were _things_ crawling under her skin. She started shaking, then spasming. She rocked forward onto all fours and started making choking, retching sounds.

Had they not all been completely focussed on Willow’s obvious distress, they would have heard motorcycles revving in the distance.

Three scarab beetles crawled out of her mouth, scurrying over her face until they came to the marks she’d made. They dug into her skin, and more of Willow’s blood fell.

Suddenly, with a great diesel roar, a hellion on a motorcycle drove straight through their circle, smashing the urn, and blowing out most of the candles.

There was a pop of total silence, and all of the magic that had been building suddenly disappeared. “No!” screamed Willow. Then, as if someone cut her strings, she dropped unconscious to the ground.

As Willow fell, Dawn woke up. Disoriented and confused, she was also inches away from a hellion drawing back to punch her.

“Dawnie!” Xander shouted, and shoved her out of the way, catching a hit that dislocated his shoulder.

“I think we need to run now!” Anya screeched. _We are all going to die._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy’s eyes snapped open and she shuddered through a whole body spasm. Pain screamed through her as muscles and flesh filled out and moisture returned to her papery skin. The agony of oxygen flooding her system was incandescent. Everything was straining and tearing and re-growing and _So. Much. Pain_. Every nerve ending was white-hot fire. She was screaming, not even aware she was doing it, and then suddenly the torture was over, leaving behind a dull ache. Her body was whole again. Resurrected.

And trapped in a coffin under six feet of dirt.

Adrenaline flooded her system. _No air_. Her instincts were screaming that she wasn’t safe, that she needed to escape. Survival was the only thing that mattered.

Crying with terror, she started punching at the coffin lid. Her movements were controlled, efficient, even while her mind continued to scream. When she finally broke through, dirt threatened to suffocate her. Scrabbling, sobbing, she pushed and pulled and grabbed and fought her way through the soil that was invading her nose and throat and lungs.

The Slayer took over, allowing her mind – her humanity – to retreat somewhere deep inside where there was no more pain and no more fear. Her muscle memories remained intact. Her body knew how to fight, how to survive.

When her head and shoulders finally broke the surface, after what felt like an eternity of struggling, she was inches away from a fledgling vampire, as fresh from the grave as she was.

“Slayer? It really _is_ my birthday!”

Her skin remembered the feeling of wood, and she grasped a shard of coffin in her fist and plunged it into the vampire’s heart. Both her legs were still trapped.

She pulled herself out, coming to all fours to vomit up what she’d swallowed in her escape.

She felt lightheaded and shaky when she stood. For all her magical resurrection, she was in shock, oxygen-starved and dehydrated.

She staggered away from her disturbed grave, instinct driving her away from the cemetery and towards the town. On her way, she took out more fledglings. Still flooded with adrenaline, rage was beginning to overtake her terror.

Then she found the hellions.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike ran towards the smell of flames and the sounds of motorcycles.

_Hellions._ His heart dropped into his stomach. _They know the Slayer’s dead._

Then he could hear screams. _Guess they’ve found the soddin’ bot._ As he rounded a corner, he thought he smelled something familiar. Almost like... _Buffy?_ Shaking it off as a side effect of keeping the bot in her room, he kept running towards the fight, wishing he had brought a weapon out with him tonight. Even an extra foot of reach would make things easier against a demon on a motorcycle. He grabbed a section of drainpipe off a wall as he passed. It would bend like butter, but was better than nothing.

He saw her flowing effortlessly through the throng of bikers from hell, ducking and weaving through punches, kicks, and flying weapons. Blood spurted into the air as she ripped out a throat with her bare hand. She managed to avoid being soaked by throwing herself away and into a spin kick, sending another demon flying through the bloody air, past Spike and crunching into a wall.

She was grunting with effort as she fought, but there were no quips. _Odd._ The bot usually wouldn't shut up when it was fighting. _Maybe Red really can change the programming_. As he jumped into the fray, knocking a hellion off his bike with the drainpipe, Spike was puzzled by the bot's ... efficiency. Every movement was clean and minimal and perfect. Then the wind shifted, and he could smell her.

_It wasn't the bot._

Before Spike could draw breath, something connected with his temple and everything went black.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

With supernaturally good timing, the Buffy-bot had arrived at the tower almost immediately after the hellions. Once the bikers saw her, they ignored the Scoobies for precious seconds, and they were able to run away without further injury.

“Magic Box?” panted Xander.

“There are weapons there,” answered Tara.

“Oh my God,” Anya whispered. “Do you think there might be looting? I couldn’t stand it if they damaged my store!”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy's whole world had narrowed to her next move. Twist. Kick. Spin. Duck. Punch. Fight. Fight. Fight. _Kill_. She could feel her skin getting slick from the blood, her increasingly sticky clothes just beginning to hinder movement. Her muscles were starting to complain, her movements losing their sharpness. _Tired_. She was favouring her left knee, and at least one finger in her right hand was broken.

Spike opened his eyes. He hadn't been unconscious for long, but he'd already caught at least one foot to the chest. _Definitely broken somethin’._ He caught her scent again. _Buffy_. His head ached and spots of light were appearing in his peripheral vision. He sat up, just in time to see her take down the last of the hellions. Bodies littered the road in a scene of carnage worthy of a demon. She turned, slowly, towards him. Her eyes were empty.

"Vampire." Her voice was rasping, animal.

She made what should have been a leap forwards, but it ended up more a lurch because of her injured knee. Spike was still staring at her, utterly incapable of thought or movement.

"Buffy," he breathed out, just as her fist connected with his jaw. Ears ringing, he came out of his trance, and started moving to protect himself.

She wasn't pulling her punches. _She really_ didn't _want to kill me before_ , Spike thought, awed. _I'd be dust righ’ now if she had a stake. No question._  Even injured, she was so much stronger than him.

_Alive. Beautiful._

But for all her strength and efficiency of movement, she wasn't _thinking_. Once Spike realised she was running on reflexes and adrenaline, it became easier to anticipate her movements and keep out of her way. They were both moving beyond human speed: Buffy attacking, Spike keeping himself a split second out of reach. She got past him a few times, though, and when he felt his cheekbone shatter, he knew he had to end the fight soon. He'd have no chance with only one working eye.

He twisted out of her immediate range, and concentrated on blending in with the shadows. He disappeared into vampire stillness just long enough to force her to switch from using her eyes to using her Slayer senses to find him again. That break in her concentration gave him the space to bring her to the ground in a flying tackle, pinning her body with his, wrapping his arms and legs around hers, and tucking his head under her chin to keep it safe. 

He couldn't hurt her like this - it was a restraining hold - so he was only a little surprised that his chip didn't fire. She bucked under him, trying to get free, but his grip was sure and certain. He'd spent too many years dealing with Dru not to have perfected the art of restraint. He could hear Buffy's heart speeding up and her breathing get ragged and haphazard.

"Buffy. Buffy, Love, I'm not gonna hurt you," he whispered, nuzzling her skin with his uninjured cheek, wanting to roll in her scent, tantalising beneath the heavy stench of demon blood.

With his weight now settled on her chest, and unable to free her arms or legs, a scream started to build inside her, bubbling up through her lungs but strangled before it reached her throat. Her eyes were screwed shut, her jaw tight to keep it in. Her whole body was shaking with the effort to breathe. The bucking stopped and her whole body went rigid.

"No air," she ground out between clenched teeth.

Spike lifted his head to look at her face. Remarkably free of blood spatter, it was streaked with dirt and tears. He could only think of one reason she'd be covered with dirt ... and suffocating.

_Oh no. No. Not that. Not ... diggin’ her way out? No._

Spike tamped down a sob before it could reach his throat. He tried to stroke her with his fingertips, desperate to comfort her, but knowing that if he loosened his hold now, she'd go straight back to trying to kill him.

"Buffy, Sweetheart, you're safe now. You can breathe. Look up, Love, stars and sky, no more coffin. You're safe." Spike started taking deep, even breaths, trying to encourage her to breathe with him.

After eternal seconds, Spike saw Buffy starting to unclench, her breathing falling into the rhythm he was setting. Just as he was considering letting her go, her eyes flew open and her heart rate jumped again.

"Vampire."

Spike stared at her mouth, not wanting to see his death in her eyes. "Yes, Love. 'M a vampire. But you treat me like a man. Could never harm you. Love you too much."

He looked up. There was a frozen moment when their eyes locked. The Slayer stared into Spike's eyes, while he searched desperately for the woman, for Buffy, silently begging her to remember him, to come back to him.

"Love?" The ghost of Buffy whispered through the Slayer's question.

"Love you, Buffy. So much. So much. God, you're _alive_! Never have and never will see anythin' so beautiful." He blinked back the tears he'd stopped being able to keep away, and gently caressed her with his cheek before meeting her eyes again.

Something glimmered there, a faint trace of recognition.

"Stupid vampire."

Spike's stomach dropped. "Buffy? Are you there, pet?"

She scrunched up her face in a moue of distaste and confusion, a movement so familiar it hurt to see.

Then she put everything she had into breaking his hold.

It would have worked on anyone else, but a century of dealing with Dru's crazy mood swings meant his grip didn't relax or slacken with his emotions anymore.

"Buffy! Please, Love. Stop struggling. You're not going to be free until I let you go."

Her eyes flattened, and she fought even harder. Every Slayer instinct she had was screaming at her that if she stopped fighting now she would die. _Survive._

Spike was scrambling to think of something that might calm her. 

_Singin'? She only likes those god-awful boy bands. But I'm sure I heard somewhere it's tone of voice tha's important.... Maybe that was coma patients._

_Buggerin' fuck I have no idea what to do._

"Buffy. Buffy please, Sweetheart, you have to calm down. 'S okay. It's all okay. You're safe. You can stop fighting now."

She kept bucking. Then she started growling.

_Maybe if I treat her more like a demon? Slayers are made outta demon essence...._

Keeping his human face, Spike grabbed onto the flesh just over her pulse point with his teeth.

"Yield," he growled.

Buffy went completely still.

He bit down harder, desperate to avoid breaking the skin. As it was, the scent of her blood was already in the air and it was driving him crazy. He could feel every pulsing beat of her heart reverberating throughout his body.

"Do you yield?" _Please, Sweetheart_. _Please just do this for me._

"Yes," she whispered. Then her body went limp as the adrenaline finally stopped pumping. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she passed out.

In his relief, Spike didn't notice his chip _still_  hadn't fired.

Spike gently eased off Buffy's now-relaxed body. "C'mon, Love. Let's get you home." He picked her up in a cradle carry, her head nestled against his neck. "You're alive," he whispered, touching his cheek to her forehead and breathing in her scent in great gulps. He had to force himself to watch where he was going. All he wanted to do was look at her. But she needed to be home, and to get patched up.

Spike was trying very, very hard not to think about her mental state.

Or quite how much pain he was in. _Can't have broken_ every _bloody rib, can I?_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The Scoobies arrived at the scene of Buffy’s killing spree not long after Spike left.

“I’d say it’s all gone a bit apocalyptic, but … your standard Sunnydale apocalypse normally has way less property damage,” Xander quipped.

“Who did this?” Tara asked. “We left the Buffy-bot back there, right?”

“Spike, I guess,” Xander said. “He was out patrolling tonight, and the whole carnage thing, it’s kinda his deal.”

“Does it matter?” Anya asked. “They’re all dead and we’re all alive.”

“Can we rest for a minute?” Tara asked. She and Anya gently laid Willow down.

“Is anyone _ever_ going to give me an explanation for how I even got here?” Dawn asked. Then, falteringly, “I mean, we’re safe now, right? I can be mad?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy woke up when they were halfway home. But before Spike could react, she'd grabbed hold of his throat with her teeth and was growling, "Yield."

Spike nearly came in his jeans. _What you do to me, woman!_ He stopped walking.

"That's more foreplay than threat, Love. 'Fraid I'm still in charge." He could feel his skin pulling against her teeth as he spoke _._ _God, Buffy._

Buffy let go, relaxing back into his arms.

"Understood that, did you? Good." Spike laid his cheek against the top of her head. "I jus’ wanna help you, Love. Let me take care of you."

"Safe," she whispered.

"Tha's right, pet. Safe as houses."

_Safe. Loved._ Words were starting to come back, but it was all still muzzy. She knew she didn’t need to fight to survive right now, and that was enough.

Buffy stayed relaxed the rest of the way back. Once they’d negotiated the front door, he set her down on the sofa, and got the first aid box from the kitchen.

"Right then, let's have a look at you. Hands?"

When Buffy made no response, Spike gently took her hands in his, kissing them lightly before laying them palm down on her lap. Her fingernails were almost all gone, bent back and ripped out, and she had broken fingers on both hands. Spike got out the squirt bottle of distilled water he usually used and gently cleaned out the blood and dirt. Then he reached for the antiseptic that had lain unused in the box for months.

"This is gonna hurt, Love. I'm sorry."

Buffy grimaced, but didn't make a sound while he brushed the antiseptic over her raw skin and bandaged her fingertips.

"I need to reset your fingers now. Tha's gonna hurt more." She held his gaze as he set and wrapped her fingers. Both of them had tears in their eyes by the time he was done.

"Now I know somethin's up with your knee. But I reckon you'll want to be gettin' clean ‘fore we do anythin’ else. What say we get you into a bath, yeah?"

No longer expecting a response, Spike scooped her up off the couch and carried her upstairs. Setting her down on the closed toilet seat, he started running the bath.

When it was ready, he hung a set of clean pyjamas on the towel rack, and left her sitting in the bathroom, desperately hoping she knew what to do. Then he sat down with his back against the bathroom door, and listened to her moving. Heard her clothes drop to the floor, and soft splashing as she slipped into the bath.

He cried. With relief and agony and love. And hatred for whoever did _this_ to his beautiful, beautiful Slayer.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Resurrection, part 2_

As soon as Spike shut the door, Buffy started looking for weapons. _Not safe here._ A manicure set provided her with a blade, and a wood-handled brush a makeshift stake. Clutching the items and with her back pressed against the wall, Buffy quickly stripped and tentatively stepped into the bath. Holding her weapons in one hand, she tried to rub the blood and dirt off her skin with the other. She never broke eye contact with the door – didn’t even attempt to clean her face or hair. It would leave her too vulnerable.

In the hallway, Spike wiped at his eyes angrily. _Now is not the time to fall apart, you wanker_. He tried to calm his breathing while he listened to her getting out of the bath and rustling with clothes. When he heard her stop moving, he got up and went back into the bathroom.

Buffy was crouched in the corner furthest from the door, a weapon in each hand, poised to defend herself.

“Not gonna hurt you, Love,” he whispered, holding his hands up and stepping towards her slowly. “Tha’ knee must be in agony, all tucked up like that.”

Spike slowly sank to his knees and sat back on his heels. She watched him warily, but made no movement. He tentatively reached out to her, and, without exerting any pressure, gently placed his fingers around her ankle. Buffy flinched, but remained still. Resting his other hand on her good knee, he tugged lightly on her ankle until she let him guide her into a sitting position, her bad leg stretched out in front of her.

“Better?”

The relief from changing position surprised her. Some of the tension started to creep out of her body.

Spike rocked back into a crouch, then eased backwards until he was alongside the tub. Not breaking eye contact, he felt around for a cloth, wet it in the bathwater, and slowly moved back to kneel in front of Buffy.

“Let me?” Going painfully slowly, he moved the cloth towards her face and started pressing it to her skin in feather light touches, wiping away the dirt and the tears. When she was clean, he reverently cupped her face in his hand and brushed her cheek softly with his thumb. “So beautiful,” he whispered.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

After seeing the bulk of the hellion gang in varying stages of evisceration, the Scoobies agreed it was safe to just go back to Revello Drive. What with having to avoid the last few fleeing hellions, and Willow unconscious and needing to be carried, it was nearing dawn by the time they got there.

Dawn had shrieked herself hoarse at the indignity of being out in her pyjamas, then refused to speak to any of them ever again when they refused to tell her why.

They were a little surprised to see most of the lights on at the house, but too exhausted to dwell. Dawn stomped straight up to her bedroom as soon as the door was opened. Anya and Tara stumbled upstairs to put Willow to bed. Tara crawled straight in after her, too tired even to undress. Anya and Xander turned out the lights and left, promising to come back first thing in the morning.

No one noticed the light shining out from under Buffy’s door, or that the bathroom was muddy and wet.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow drifted back into consciousness late the next morning. She had a good few seconds of drowsy happiness before she remembered her failure. She’d sacrificed so much to rescue her best friend and she’d failed. She started crying, waking Tara, who just held her until she was ready to stop.

“Is everyone okay?” Willow asked. “I mean, scary bikers from hell and all that.”

“Xander hurt his shoulder. And I think the Buffy-bot might be … dead. She saved us, but we haven’t seen her since. She’s still programmed to come to you if she’s injured, right?”

“Yeah.” Then Willow said in a small voice, “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring her back.” She started to cry again.

“Oh, Baby. You did your best. It’s not your fault those demons crashed through your power circle.”

“I was so sure it would work!”

“I know.”

“Maybe we can try again?”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Willow. I mean, those demons coming just then? M-maybe we really were in over our heads. Invoking forces that we have no right to...”

“But-“

“Dawnie woke up when you passed out,” Tara said. “We had to explain the sleepwalking thing. She’s pretty upset.”

“Does she know about bringing Buffy back?”

“Not yet. We said we’d explain today.”

“I don’t know if I can face her.”

“Xander and Anya are gonna come here as soon as they wake up. We can do it together.”

“I guess.” Willow groaned. “We should really get up now, shouldn’t we?”

Tara nodded. “Yeah, probably. They could get here any minute.”

Willow gingerly got out of bed. _Owie._ “I’m gonna go shower. I’m all achy.”

Tara smiled at her. “Okay, Sweetie.” She grimaced. “I’ll see if Dawnie’s ready to talk to us yet.”

Willow looked guilty again. As she turned to leave the room, someone else briefly watched her out of Tara’s eyes.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“I'm not saying we announce it this second...” Anya said, exasperated.

“Anya...”

“I think it will please them to know we're engaged. And I think Willow, in particular, could use a morale booster right now.”

Xander shut his eyes. “Can we talk about this later?” _Why can’t she understand that now’s not the time?_

“It's just that... Well, all the excuses for not telling anyone we're engaged are gone now. There's nothing hanging over us anymore. This is it. No more surprises.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara came back to herself, shivering. “Ooh, I think someone just walked over my gr—” Tara stopped herself. _No talking of graves right now. Bad metaphor._

“Everything okay, Baby?” Willow asked, concerned.

“Yeah, just a sudden monster attack of the wiggins. I felt like I was  … outside my body?” Tara shivered again. “Probably just lack of sleep.” _I hope._

They could hear knocking downstairs, and then the front door opening.

“Anyone awake yet?” Xander called out.

Willow padded down the stairs. “All awake here. No more unconscious-girl.” She smiled weakly.

Xander pulled her into a hug. “We were so worried about you.”

Tara knocked gently on Dawn’s door. “Dawnie?”

“Go away!” There was a thump as she threw something at the door.

“Willow’s awake again, and we’ll be making breakfast in a minute. Then we’re all gonna talk. Will you at least come out for that?”

“M’kay.” She paused. “But I’m still not speaking to you!”

“Okay,” Tara said, sighing. _That could have gone worse_. As she turned away from Dawn’s door to go join the others, she noticed mud and … a dress? … on the bathroom floor.

“Um, guys? Could you come up here for a minute?” Tara called.

They trooped upstairs. Willow stood next to Tara in the bathroom doorway, her face screwed up in confusion. “Maybe the bot came back last night and needed to get cleaned up?”

Xander thought there was something about the dress … but he couldn’t quite place it.

“It’s highly doubtful she survived those bikers,” Anya said.

“Maybe. I’ll check Buffy’s room.” They all watched as Willow opened Buffy’s door.

Spike was asleep in a chair alongside the bed, one arm stretched out and resting on _… Buffy_.

“Buffy!” Willow breathed. The others crowded around the doorway, stunned.

“Is that - Buffy?” Tara whispered.

Willow crept up to the bed and reached out to her.

Buffy eyes flew open. _No._ She grabbed Willow’s arm and threw her careening into Spike, waking him up and knocking over the chair, sending them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs. She pulled herself up into a crouch against the headboard, clutching her brush and cuticle knife.

“What’s wrong with her?” Anya asked.

Untangling herself from Spike, Willow said, “Nothing! She’s just in shock.”

Spike, growling, moved to crouch by the head of the bed, laying his palms flat. “’S’okay, Love. You’re safe. All safe.” Buffy relaxed slightly, lowering herself out of the crouch, but still holding tightly to her weapons.

“Her fingers … what happened to her hands?” Tara asked.

“Aw no….” Xander whimpered.

“What?” Willow asked.

“No!! How could we...” He made a sound of disgust. “So stupid.”

“Xander?!” Willow’s voice was high and breathy with panic.

“The spell. Our little resurrection spell worked like a magic charm. We brought her back to life, all right. Right where we left her … in her coffin.”

 “Oh God,” Willow sobbed.

Spike’s eyes went yellow; he was hanging onto his human face by a thread. _Playing with forces they don’t understand. I could kill them all_.

The angry-Master-vampire vibe in the room made them all suddenly conscious of Spike, and his closeness to Buffy.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Xander’s voice dripped venom. “Get away from her!”

“I found her and brought her home las' night,” Spike said, keeping his eyes on Buffy and his voice even and calm. “And seein’ as I’m the only one strong enough to keep her from throwin’ you lot around the room like little dollies, I reckon I’ll stay right where I am.”  _Calm. Gotta stay calm_.

Suddenly afraid of what feral-Buffy might do to him, Xander was thinking maybe Spike should stay where he was after all. Everyone except Willow took a tentative step back.

“Buffy? Buffy, it's Xander. We're ... sorry. We didn't know….”

“You're not reaching her,” Tara said. “She's too traumatised.”

“Buffy?” Xander tried again. “It's going to be all right. We ... we brought you back. You're home now.”

Anya moved carefully towards Buffy. “Hey, Buffy, here's some good news that might perk you right up. Xander and I have an announcement—”

Xander jerked her back. “Anya!”

“What? I'm trying to help.”

Buffy’s eyes were flicking between them warily. She started growling.

“M-maybe we should give her some space. I think we’re freaking her out,” Tara suggested.

Willow was still on the floor, unable to process what was happening. _How did it all go so wrong?_

Tara pulled Willow to her feet. “Let’s get breakfast. Everything will be better with food.” She looked at Spike. “Has she - ?”

“No,” he answered.

“D’you think toast - ?”

He nodded carefully. The longer they were near him, the more his jaw ticked with suppressed rage. _Stupid fuckin’ wankers. Never think about the soddin' consequences._

He could feel bloodlust rising. Buffy’s heartbeat was like a siren song to his starved and injured body.  _Not good. Need blood. Now._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The thuds coming from Buffy’s room had drawn Dawn out to investigate, and although she couldn’t hear everything from the doorway to her bedroom, she’d heard enough. She shut her door as the Scoobies came out of Buffy’s room and trooped downstairs, sliding down to sit against it. _What did they_ do _? Is this why they put me to sleep?_

A few minutes later, she heard Buffy’s door open and close, then Spike’s footsteps along the hallway and going down the stairs.

Dawn needed to see for herself.

She opened her door as quietly as she could, and crept down the hall to slip into Buffy’s room.

“Buffy?” Dawn said, coming into the room. “How - is it you? I mean, really?”

Buffy was in no state to deal with surprises.

Spike heard Dawn moving upstairs while he was waiting for his blood to heat up. Afraid of what Buffy might do, he ran for her room. He reached the doorway in time to see Buffy holding Dawn from behind, the cuticle knife pressed against her jugular.

Spike knew that if Buffy tried to cut Dawn's throat now, even with his speed, he’d never be able to get there in time. Holding his hands out, he started moving very slowly towards them. “Easy, Love. Dawn’s no threat to you,” he whispered.

“Buffy?” Dawn wavered. “I'm your sister. Dawn. You don't want to hurt me. I don't know how you're back but you are and please, just….” She broke off in a sob of fear and anguish. “Talk to me!” She shrieked.  “Say something! I don't understand.” Tears streaming down her face, she whimpered, “You’re scaring me.”

Buffy cocked her head to one side. “Is this hell?” she asked in a small voice.

“What?” Dawn asked.

“Is this hell?”

“No. Buffy, no. You're here. With me. Whatever happened to you…. Whatever you've been through.... It's - it's over now. You're—”

“Buffy, please,” Spike whispered. “You’ve got to remember.” He still wasn't close enough. He'd never been so terrified.

“Listen to me," Dawn pleaded. "You told me I had to be strong. And I've tried.” Dawn’s voice broke. “It's been so hard without you, but I try to be brave. I'm sorry. I promise I'll do better. I will. If you're with me. Stay with me. Please. I need you with me.” Dawn was shaking with sobs, and her movements caused the knife to dig into her, just a little bit, releasing a trickle of blood.

As the scent of Dawn’s blood flooded the room, two things happened: Spike threw himself at Buffy, desperate to stop her from hurting Dawn more; but also, cracks formed deep down inside Buffy, where she’d hidden herself from the fear and the pain, and some of her memories came back. “Dawn?” she whispered. Recognition flooded into her eyes, and she dropped the knife. Spike let her go, sagging against the wall with relief. _Too close._

“Oh god, Dawnie!” Buffy croaked out, and turned Dawn around in her arms.

Dawn, still crying, gasped in the too-strong embrace. “Can’t breathe, Buffy!”

Overcome with horror at what she’d almost done – twice – Buffy flung herself away from her sister. “I – I was going to….”

“But you didn’t. The important thing is, you didn’t,” Spike said, shakily pulling Dawn towards him, needing the physical reassurance that she was still alive.

“Buffy?” Dawn moved out of Spike’s half-hug towards her sister, still needing the comfort of being close to her. Spike watched them warily, still not sure Dawn would be safe.

Buffy stared at her sister, stricken. Dawn wrapped her arms around her, holding on tight. Buffy clenched and unclenched her fists as her trembling arms came up to rest lightly around Dawn’s back.

“Buffy.... You ... you're really here.” Dawn let out a sob. “You're alive and you're home.” Dawn’s tear-stained face was suffused with relief and tentative joy. “You're home.”

Buffy’s face was completely frozen. Her eyes met Spike’s. “You protected her.” He nodded. “Even from me.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Downstairs, Tara was making breakfast, while Willow and Xander sat silently, trying to process what had just happened. Anya was fluttering around the room, unable to keep still with all the tension.

They barely noticed Spike come in, put some blood in the microwave, then leave again.

“I think we screwed it up and she's broken,” Anya said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“No!” Willow almost shouted. “She can’t be broken!”

Then Spike returned with a tear-ravaged Dawn. When he got out the first aid kit, every eye in the room went to the cut on Dawn’s neck.

“D-d-did B-B-Buffy - ?” Tara stuttered.

It was all so far away from what they’d expected. _Buffy_ hurting _Dawn_ was just … inconceivable.

“You’re going to have to put her back,” Anya said.

“No,” Spike said firmly.

“No!” Dawn shrieked.

Suddenly, Buffy was in the kitchen with them.

“I’m okay,” she said softly, looking at the floor.

All the Scoobies started talking at once. “What do you remember?” (Xander); “Are you in pain?” (Willow); and “What do you know about what happened?” (Tara).

Buffy cringed.

“Back off!” shouted Dawn, standing protectively between her sister and the others.

“I'm going to be fine,” Buffy said. “I remember – I was— You brought me back.” She looked up, but avoided making eye contact. “How long was I gone?”

“Hundred forty-eight days yesterday.” Spike responded quickly.  “Um, ‘cept yesterday doesn’t count, does it?” He tried to catch her eye, but Buffy wouldn’t look at him. “How long was it for you … where you were?”

“Longer. It was ... I can't – I couldn't leave.”

“It's okay. You really don't have to do this, Buff,” Xander said softly. “Hey, do you want something? Anything? Toast? Doughnuts? I’ll get you doughnuts.”

“She doesn't want doughnuts,” Willow said scornfully.

“Back. The fuck. Off,” Spike ground out. The Scoobies flinched.

“Let Buffy tell us what she needs,” Dawn said.

Buffy backed up against the wall, still not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I think ... I want to sleep.”

Suddenly, she was staring straight at Spike, pleading.

“That's a good idea,” Tara said. “You should sleep.”

“Yeah,” Willow agreed. “But, Buffy, be happy. We got you out. We really did it.” She smiled, tentatively.

They’d saved her. They, the Scoobies, had saved the Chosen One, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. _Why wouldn’t she look at them?_

“Tired,” Buffy whispered. She looked up at Spike again. “Will you...?”

He nodded. “I’ll watch over you.”

Dawn reached out to touch her sister, but Buffy pulled away and moved towards the stairs. Dawn’s face fell.

Spike pulled her against him with both arms. “Give her time, Sweet Bit. Gave herself quite a scare there.” Dawn buried her face in his chest, crying again.

Spike grabbed his blood and the first aid kit and, still holding Dawn tightly against his side, followed Buffy upstairs.

Xander started to splutter, then stopped.

“She just tried to slit Dawn’s throat,” Anya said. Everyone flinched. “I, for one, feel much safer with Spike watching her.”

“Anya!” said Xander.

“What? She _did_.”

“She's just disoriented from being tormented in some kind of hell dimension,” Willow said. "Probably tortured and…. It's like, we don't even know how much time passed there for her, possibly years. That's not something you get over…” Willow trailed off, then, “What if she never gets over it?”

“And you think of this _now_?” Anya asked, incredulous. _So ignorant_.

“What are you thinking, Willow?” Tara asked. “That she's ... that she's not right? Or maybe, like, dangerous?”

“No!” Willow shouted, stomping her foot. “She’s not all feral-Buffy anymore – she’s definitely normal … now.”

“Willow, she _died_ to protect Dawn, and practically the first thing she did when we brought her back was try to _kill_ her!” Anya said. “I don’t think she’s especially normal at all.”

“Shut up, Anya!” Xander shouted.

In the awkward silence that followed, no one noticed that Xander’s brown eyes had turned green, or that someone else was staring out of them. He attributed his disorientation and discomfort to thinking about what his best friend had just done to her sister.

Anya’s face crumpled. _There’s always consequences with magic. Always! I don’t understand why I’m not supposed to talk about it._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Consequences, part 1_

Dawn stayed glued to Spike’s side as they walked upstairs. He guided her into the bathroom, put down his mug and the first aid kit, and swung her up to sit on the counter next to the sink.

“Right then, Pidge, let’s have a look at that cut.” Spike was still amazed that Dawn’s blood never smelled like food to him. Blood called. _Loudly_. No matter whose it was, human blood smelled delicious – even more so in the years since he’d stopped drinking it. But never hers.

At first, he’d thought it was something to do with his attempts at starving himself to death, but he was pretty sure now that that wasn’t all of it. He lived with her – well, during the week, anyway – and no matter how much her blood flowed or how easily accessible it was, _nothing_ _happened_. No bumpies, no yellow eyes, nothing. He reacted just like he would with another vampire: check if it’s dangerous, and if not, move on. Somehow, his demon recognised her as … family.

This time was no different. He put his hand to her jaw and tilted her head up and away so he could look at the cut. It was just a scratch, really: if it had been his neck, or Buffy’s, it would already be healed. But it was _perfectly_ aligned with her jugular vein. _Fuck. Too close._ He grabbed the antiseptic and gave it a quick swipe.

“First neck wound’ve seen in years actually small enough for a band-aid,” he grunted, putting one on, then gently running one hand over the top of Dawn’s head. “There. All fixed up.” Dawn leaned forward until her forehead was resting on his chest. He let his arms come down to rest around her narrow frame.

“What’s wrong with Buffy?” she asked in a small voice.

Spike sighed. “Did you see her hands?” Dawn shook her head no and wrapped her arms around his waist, face still hidden in his chest. “Right. She had to claw her way out of her grave, Bit. She woke up, alone, terrified, in pain, without air, and she had to fight her way out.”

Dawn nodded solemnly into his chest, trying not to cry. “Is that what it was like for you?” Swinging her knees to one side, she snuggled in closer. She felt safe like this. Everything was just so frightening right now.

“Pretty much.” He paused. “I could've jus’ stopped breathin’, but I didn’ know that at the time. Still don’ like it very much when I can’t breathe.”

Dawn raise her head to look at him. “But were you … like her? Did you kill your family?” Her eyes were so wide, and so scared.

 _God, Bit, pick an easy question._ “’S different with vamps. Your sis didn’t know who you were – who I was – anythin’! Couldn’t even ‘member how to speak.” He raised one eyebrow. “Not like she’s ever _liked_ usin’ her words to solve her problems.” Dawn almost smiled. He looked away for second. “But I always remembered.” _Can’t lie. She trusts me._  “Jus’ didn’t care.” He cupped Dawn’s face in his hand, meeting her gaze again. “It was you brought her out of it, Dawn. Don’t you forget that. Tha’ lot downstairs? Might’ve brought back her body, but her mind? All you. Only you.” Dawn burrowed back into his chest, clutching him tighter.

“They’re not going to … put her back, are they?” she whispered. “I mean, it’s not like when I tried to bring Mom back, is it?”

“NO. An' I reckon Buffy’s … herself … enough now they won’t want to. Don’t you worry about that, Pigeon.” _She’s not all the way herself yet, but … she’s a fighter. She will be. Not lyin’._

Satisfied for the moment that her sister was safe, Dawn asked, “What happened to your face?” He hadn’t had blood since he’d first woken up yesterday. His smashed cheek still hung drunkenly, and the eye above it was swollen shut. And now he wasn’t quite so focussed on keeping the Summers women safe, he hurt. Everywhere.

“What d’you reckon?”

“Buffy, huh?”

He nodded. “She packs a right mean punch, your sis.”

“I guess I was lucky. Kinda. I mean, only a band-aid, right?” Dawn picked up the now-stone-cold mug of blood and held it out. “You need to get all fixed up, too. Bet you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

He downed it, grimacing at the taste.

“That’s not gonna be enough to heal all that, is it?”

“’S alright for a start. Don’ really fancy goin’ back downstairs right now.” He remembered, suddenly, that no one had been home when he’d brought Buffy back last night. “What happened last night?” he asked. “When I left, you were asleep. Those gits downstairs were obviously out doin’ whatever they did to bring your sis back. Where were you?”

Tears started welling up in Dawn’s eyes. “They magicked me to sleep and they brought me with them.”

Spike was utterly, utterly speechless.

Dawn started sobbing. “I was there with them the whole time w-when they were bringing her b-back and I didn’t know!” She ended on a wail. “I was in my pyjamas and I was still asleep and then demon bikers broke the circle and then Willow passed out and I woke up and the first thing I saw was this fist coming for my face and oh Spike, I thought I was gonna die!” She gasped for breath. “But then Xander pushed me out of the way, and the Buffy-bot came and they got distracted and we ran.”

 _What the fuck. Do they not have a brain cell between them? No protection from Sunnydale’s nasties. Getting’ a_ child _involved in resurrection spells?!_ Spike pulled Dawn into a tight hug.

Dawn continued, her crying tapering off a little as she remembered her anger. “Why didn’t they wake me up and let me _choose_? I would have done anything to get Buffy back. _Anything_! Why did they _force_ me like that?” She paused, a sudden idea horrifying her. “What if it’s not the first time? They coulda done it before. I’d never know. Why would they – I _trusted_ them.” Realising the depth of the betrayal, her anger faded, and Dawn just cried.

“’S unforgiveable. Doin’ that to you.” _I’ll kill them. Fucking chip!_ Any hopes Spike had for one day forging … _anything_ … with the Scoobies went up in smoke then and there. If they could do this to Dawn, decide consciously to violate her like that _for fuckin’ convenience!_ He wanted nothing more to do with them. “My place isn’t safe for you on your tod – not at night, anyway. If it was, I’d take you outta here right now. Damn the consequences.” Spike ran a hand over his face. “Let’s at least fix you up with some kind of lock on your door.” He looked at her sideways. “ _Would_ suggest somethin’ noisy to wake you up if someone comes through, but we both know brass bands got no hope when you’re out for the count.” She smiled, weakly. He ruffled her hair. “I’ll talk to your sis ‘bout gettin’ rid of the witches. You’re not safe with them in the house.”

 _This is all happening so fast. Too fast._ “But that’s … really big … them leaving. I mean, Buffy’s only just came back and it’s _Willow and Tara_. They make me pancakes and they moved in to take care of me. Kicking them out? Willow’s Buffy’s best friend. Will she … will Buffy even… I mean … me and Buffy … not always so close.”

“Stop.” Spike put one finger over her lips. “Nothin’s more important to me than your safety. Nothin’. And I _know_ Buffy feels the same way. You think she won’ be furious ‘bout what they did? Sweet Bit, she died so you could live. You think kickin’ her friends outta the house to keep you safe is gonna be a hard sell after that?”

Dawn nodded. Part of her knew she should believe him. But it still felt … weird … even thinking about Buffy taking her side over her friends’. In their old life, before all the dying, Dawn was sure Buffy would have trusted that anything Willow did was for a good reason, no matter what it was. _Willow just has to bake some guilt-cookies and everything’s fine again_. She realised she really _did_ feel uncomfortable about sleeping in the house with them there. Maybe Spike could make Buffy understand.

 _If she doesn’t try to kick_ him _out instead._

Dawn knew something bad had happened between them last winter – and it must have been serious, because Buffy had revoked his invitation to the house. But no one had ever told her what was going on, and although things had seemed a bit better later on – even _after_ the bot – she wasn’t sure whether they’d ever really fixed things. Forcing Buffy to choose between people was dangerous. What if she picked Willow?

“I’m not sure I want Buffy to know what they did,” she said. “Not yet. If I know I’m safe in my room, I think I’ll be okay. And … you’ll be here, right?”

“I’ll always be here, Platelet. But … not good, keepin’ secrets like that. They broke your trust, there’s gotta be consequences.”

“I know, but… not yet. Buffy only just got back. Can’t we wait until she’s….”

Spike knew that trying to predict Buffy’s reaction to _anything_ right now was a gamble. _Explainin’ her best friends almost got her sister killed…._ He decided to go with Dawn’s instincts for the time being. “I’ll give it a few days. But I’m gonna tell her ‘bout what they did eventually. Not takin’ chances with your safety.” He grabbed her chin. “You’re never to be alone with them, 'less you’re locked up tight in your room. Got it?”

Dawn nodded, some of the tightness around her heart loosening.

“Right then. I need to get showered and tape up m’ribs. I think there’s some wood in the basement we can use to bar your door – should be on the floor next to the washin' machine. If you grab that, and my tools, we’ll sort you out when’m done.”

Dawn looked down at his t-shirt, already dirty from fighting, now worse from her crying. “You need a new shirt.”

“Tha’ too.” Spike pulled back so that Dawn could get off the counter. He stroked her head, then pulled lightly on her hair. “Go on, then.”

Dawn walked out of the bathroom, not feeling better, exactly, but … more hopeful.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya was sulking. Xander was freaked by how angry he’d been, shouting at her. _That’s not_ me _. That’s my dad_. They sat at opposite ends of the breakfast bar, lost in their own thoughts.

Willow was pushing food around her plate, thinking about baking. _Cookies make everything better._

Tara was washing up the breakfast dishes. She felt sick. Buffy was so … broken. _Anya’s right, such dark magic will have consequences_. _And what we've done to Dawn!_ She’d felt uneasy about it last night, but her fear and excitement about the resurrection spell had overridden everything else. Now that she could see Dawn’s reaction…. _How can she ever trust us again?_ Should _she ever trust us again? We took all her choices away just because we didn’t think to find a babysitter. We should know better –_ be _better – than that._

When Dawn came through the kitchen to go down to Spike’s room – w _hen had the basement become Spike’s room?_ – Tara and Willow gave guilty starts. When she came back up, carrying a toolbox they didn’t recognise, wood, and a t-shirt, Tara picked up the plate of buttered toast she’d set aside for Buffy.

“This is for B-B-B-Buffy. D-d-d-o you want anything?” Tara stuttered.

Dawn jiggled her load around in preparation for taking the plate, avoiding Tara’s eyes. “Not hungry,” she muttered. “Spike needs more blood, though.”

“I can do that,” Willow said, jumping up and going over to the fridge.

“Use the popcorn setting,” Dawn said. Realising she didn’t have the capacity to carry the toast or a mug of liquid, she added, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and went upstairs.

“Who woulda thunk it? Popcorn and blood,” Willow said awkwardly.

“Yeah,” said Tara.

When Dawn came down again, she was walking stiffly and her eyes were that same glowy green from the resurrection spell.

“Bitches. Little bitches playing with powers you don’t understand!” a gravelly rasp poured out of her mouth. Tara and Willow jumped, backing slowly away.

“Dawnie?” Willow faltered.

“Not home, little witch.” She tilted her head and grinned. “Gone far, far away.” The … thing … wearing Dawn’s body started swaying like a snake, walking towards them. “Bitch-witch, witch-bitch,” it singsonged. They could hear chittering around them, like at the tower during the spell. “Tasty little bitches. I’m hungry!” Then, like a switch being flipped, the green lights went out from her eyes, and Dawn slumped to the floor.

“Oh my god,” Tara whispered. “What was that?”

“Probably a hitchhiker,” Anya said, glaring at Xander.

“A hitchhiker?” Xander asked, moving to gather Dawn up. “C’mon, Dawnster. Wakey-wakey.”

Dawn made a sleepy noise, and opened her eyes. Realising she was on the floor in Xander's arms, she shrieked. “What did you do to me!” Eyes wide in terror, she scrambled away from him, and, sitting against the wall, yelled “Spike!”

Spike came running down the stairs, wearing nothing but his jeans and still damp from the shower. Dawn threw herself at him as he entered the kitchen.

“ _We_ didn’t do anything to you,” Anya said. “Some demon piggybacked with Buffy into our dimension and is probably trying to kill us all now.”

“Anya!” Xander said.

“You mean some demon from Hell rode back with Buffy?” Willow squeaked. “Like ... we're responsible for this?”

“I _knew_ it would go badly.” Anya pouted. “Resurrection spells are never a good idea.”

“Well why didn’t you say something?!” Willow shouted. “You could've at least mentioned the ‘hijackers’ so we could stop 'em!”

“They're hitchhikers, not hijackers, and I thought you knew! It's basic stuff! _You're_ supposed to be the all-powerful witch.” She folded her arms.

“What’s happenin’ then?” Spike asked, forcing himself to stay calm.

“Dawn just got … taken over … by something,” Xander said.

“A hitchhiker,” Anya explained.

“Consequences,” Spike breathed. “Always gotta be consequences.”

“Exactly!” Anya said, throwing her hands in the air.

Dawn was trying to curl herself tighter into Spike, terrified.

“I – I don’t think it’s the first time,” Tara said quietly. “I felt something, this morning. I thought it was just … but now … I think maybe it took _me_ over too.” Willow was staring at her girlfriend in horror. _All my fault_.

“Some kind of traveller demon, then,” Spike said. “No corporeal form of its own.”

“Don’t tell me: Gozer the Traveller has come,” Xander said.

Anya smacked him. “ _Xander!_ Now is not the time. Even _I_ know that.”

“Sorry, Dawnie,” Xander said.

There was a long silence.

“Well, go research then!” Spike said, finally. “‘S what you lot do, innit?”

“We might need your translation skills,” Anya said. “I’ll let you know.”

Willow, Tara and Xander stared at them.

“Tr-translation skills?” Xander squawked. “ _Spike_ has translation skills? That _you_ know about?”

Anya sighed. “I never had to learn languages when I was a vengeance demon! I just understood everything magically. Since Giles left, I … I get a little stuck sometimes. I knew Spike spoke Fyarl. Turns out he speaks a lot of demon languages, plus some human ones. He’s made a big impact on my profits.”

“Never did get to grips with Sumerian, though. So we’re stuffed if it’s Gozer.” Spike winked at Xander.

Xander opened and closed his mouth a few times. _Did we just share a moment?_

Willow and Tara were watching the by-play open-mouthed. _Anya and Spike have a … a business relationship?_

“We should start with the research. Much needed stoppage of the body-snatching,” Willow said. The others nodded, still feeling a bit stunned – except Anya, who was feeling rather smug.

As they gathered up their things and walked towards the door, Spike looked down at Dawn, still cowering against him.

“Know you’re not alrigh', but…”

“Can you make me that door bar now?” she whispered.

“Course. Then maybe you could do with a nap? Been quite a day.”

Dawn nodded. “There’s blood for you in the microwave.”

Spike waddled over to the microwave, unable to move his legs properly with the Dawn-limpet attached. “You know this is ridiculous, right?” he said.

“I just … I’m a little freaked out right now.”

“I know, pet. I know.” He kissed the top of her head and ruffled her hair. He took the mug out, and downed the blood.

“There’s a plate of toast for Buffy.” Dawn pointed.

“Right.” He grabbed the plate, sighing. “I really can’t go up the stairs like this.”

“Sorry,” Dawn mumbled into his chest. She shuffled around until her legs were completely to one side of his, but still clinging.

Twenty minutes later, there was a thick, wooden bar laid across the inside of Dawn’s door, and Dawn was passed out, exhausted, on her bed.

The shower and blood had made Spike feel more functional – especially now he could see out of both eyes again – and the jittery feeling that Dawn was in danger had lessened with the door bar. _He_ could probably still bust through it – and Buffy – but it would take a while, and normal humans would have no chance.

It was time to go talk to Buffy.

He decided not to wake Dawn to put up the bar after him. The others weren’t home; she was safe enough for the time being.

He’d heard Buffy’s heart rate loud and clear downstairs, and it’d been more hummingbird than human. Whatever she was, she wasn’t _okay_. She was hiding something, and he wanted – needed – to know what it was.

He walked down the hallway to her room, carrying the plate of toast. He raised his hand to knock, then stopped. _Best know now if she’s still gonna try t’kill whatever comes through the door_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Consequences, part 2_

Spike opened the door and walked straight through. “Still after rippin’ someone’s throat out, Slayer?” he asked, trying for light banter and not quite making it.

She was sitting rigidly on the bed, back straight, hands resting on her thighs, and staring at the wall. She looked perfectly still and calm, but he could hear her heart going a thousand miles a minute.

“Yes,” she said simply. She didn’t even look at him as she said it.

“Well. That’s … honest.” Spike put the plate of toast down on her vanity, closed the door and leaned back against it, folding his arms over his chest. “And Dawn? She on the menu?” _If I had to choose … god, that’s no kind of choice. Please don’t ever put me in that position again, you crazy bitch._

“I didn’t recognise her, then.”

“But you do now?” _Please, please say yes._

“Dawn is … important. Family.” Buffy’s shoulders tried to shrug through her stillness.

“You’re still not all there, are you?” Spike ran his hands over his face and started wandering around the room, picking things up and putting them down again. The stillness was making him crazy.

“I … everything is so … I thought she would hurt me, too. Everyone here hurts me.”

He stopped moving. “I haven’t.”

“Not yet,” she acknowledged.

Spike went to sit next to her on the bed, trying to work out what was so fascinating about that bloody wall.

“Dawn won’t,” he added.

“No.” She paused. “I know that now.”

“Good.” A tension went out of his shoulders he hadn’t realised was there.

“You’ll stop me, won’t you?” That pleading look from downstairs was back in her eyes, but she wouldn’t move, her gaze still fixed on the wall.

“What do you mean?”

“When I hurt her?” Her voice was soft and full of pain.

“You stopped yourself this morning.”

“I still cut her throat.”

“It’s never gonna come to that.” He grabbed her, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me. You’re Heaven’s Chosen One.” He completely misunderstood her flinch. “The golden girl. You will _never_ hurt your family. Never hurt Dawn.”

“Heaven doesn’t want me.”

There was something about the way she said it that jerked at Spike’s gut. “Buffy… where were you?”

She took a breath, twisted out of his grip and went back to staring at the wall. “I don’t know … not really. But wherever I was, I was happy. At peace. I was … complete. Safe. It was warm and quiet and I felt so much love.”

She paused, then whispered, “I think I was in heaven.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya slammed shut the book she’d been leafing through. “I think we should call Giles.”

“We will,” Willow said. “As soon as we get rid of the demon hitchhiker.”

“I gotta go with Ahn on this one, Will,” Xander said. “Why are we waiting to call the G-man?”

“He said not to call unless there was an apocalypse. I don’t wanna bug him yet.”

“He m-m-might be upset that we waited to tell him that Buffy’s back, Sweetie,” Tara said.

“I’m calling him now,” Anya said firmly. “He may have ideas on how to stop the hitchhiker. I do _not_ want to be possessed.” Anya got up and walked over to the counter, where the phone was.

“No,” Willow said firmly. As Anya reached for the phone, Willow telekinetically slid it out of her reach. Anya huffed, and moved to grab the phone again. Willow moved it again.

“Willow!” Tara said.

“What?” Willow replied.

“Stop it.”

“But she’s—“

“She’s right. It’s time to call Mr Giles.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Buffy…” For the second time that day, Spike’s brain shuddered to a standstill.

“Why doesn’t heaven want me anymore?” Buff dropped her gaze to the floor, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I don’t know if I can keep myself from …” She paused. “I know I’m not the same. There are … pieces … missing. Memories. And my body wants to fight, to stay here. I can feel it. But I’m not ready to … it’s all I can do to cope with…” a sob threated to escape her restrained stillness, “the _loss_ ,” she ended on a whisper. “I’m so afraid of what I might do.” _Is it me who’s in danger, or is it them?_

Spike got off the bed and knelt at her feet. Taking her hands in his, he looked straight into her eyes. “Of course Heaven wants you! You’re bloody perfect, you are. Your precious friends ripped you out. _They_ did this. Not you. Never you.” He kissed her fingers, gently, reverently. “Can’t say I’m sorry you’re back. Too selfish for that. But the way you came back? Wouldn’ wish it on anyone.”

“There are so many things I’m not sure of … things I don’t remember. I … I know my mother is gone, but I can’t remember why, or how. I know who my friends _are_ but … there are gaps…. I only remember the bad times.” She paused. “Giles!” she shouted. “Giles should be here. Why isn’t he here? He … he loved me, I remember.”

“Went to England, right after you died. ‘Spect he’ll show up, soon’s he knows you’re back.”

Buffy nodded, very slightly. “Only, only he hurt me, too. He … drugged me? Why would he do that? I was so weak. Powerless.” She reeled back suddenly, hit with another memory. “He wanted me to kill Dawn.” Buffy’s stranglehold on her body was weakening, the more she got lost in the memories coming back. She looked confused, distressed. Her heart still hadn’t stopped racing.

She looked at Spike, _really_ looked at him, like she was still the person she used to be. “And _you_ love me.” She made a choked sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Why can’t I remember the good things?”

Before he could react, it was like a dam broke inside her, and the crying started. She curled into herself, until she was lying on the edge of the bed in foetal position, her whole body shaking and shuddering. She was facing him, but her eyes were squeezed shut against the tears.

Spike didn’t know what to do. He knew she needed the release, and anything he did might send her back to repressing again. He reached out tentatively to touch her shoulder. When she didn’t react, he started stroking her arm, still kneeling on the floor beside her.

After what seemed like hours, but wasn’t, her swollen eyes blinked open, and she looked at him again. “You can’t tell anyone. Where I was.”

Spike nodded.

“Stay with me?”

He nodded again. “Whatever you need, Love.”

She closed her eyes and curled back into herself, finally falling into exhausted sleep.

Wide awake, he watched her. Even though he was knackered, he wasn’t sleepy. He knelt beside her, one hand travelling restlessly over her in feather light touches. Reassuring himself of her breathing, her warmth. _Alive. So beautiful._

He had no warning when the first nightmare hit. There was a hitched breath, and then she was punching him in the face. He felt his nose break, but managed to keep her away from his cheek. Her heart rate said she was still sleeping, but her unseeing eyes were open while she flailed and fought. When he moved out of the way of her fists, she didn’t follow. “No air,” she whimpered, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it over her movements.

She was fighting her way out of a coffin only she could see.

He carefully lay down behind her on the bed. He wrapped himself around her, holding her limbs, but leaving her face and chest free and clear.

“Shhh, Love. I’ve got you. You’re safe. No more coffin. It’s daytime. All light out.” She was still twitching and struggling against his hold, but with less force all the time. She stopped struggling completely after a few minutes, relaxing into him as she slipped out of the nightmare and back into sleep.

He was already hard just from her nearness, but when she took his arms and wrapped herself in them, grinding her bottom against his cock in her sleep, he thought he might burst out of his jeans.

_What you do to me, woman._

But she still smelled of fear, and for right now, holding her was enough. Such a gift to be surrounded by the scent and feel of her skin, her _warmth_. Thinking she must be cold to be wrapping his body around hers, he pulled the cover over them both.

He held her while she slept and it was blissful.

The second nightmare started with her crying out in pain. This time, her body was stretched taut in the remembered agony of resurrection. His body was still folded around hers, and, whispering comfort into her ears, he soothed her back to sleep.

Not long after that, his plan to memorise every blessed second she let him keep holding her was thwarted by his own exhaustion, and he let the cocoon of borrowed warmth suck him into sleep.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy drifted into wakefulness feeling warm and safe. She had a moment of panic when she’d realised it was _Spike_ whose leg was trapped between hers, whose arm was her pillow and whose hand was splayed, under her shirt, over her naked belly. _Vampire!_ But then she remembered … he would protect Dawn. He would protect Dawn until the end of the world. She _knew_ , with everything she had, that she could trust in that. Even though she couldn’t remember why. And he … she thought he loved _her_ , too. Something about that felt … wrong. But everything was all so muzzy.

The first time she tried to get out of bed, he clutched her closer, moving down her body and rubbing his cheek against her back in between her shoulder blades and … was he _purring_? With concerted wriggling, she managed to get out of his grasp. He rolled straight into the spot she’d vacated in the bed, chasing the warmth, and she found herself folding the duvet around him.

_This … isn’t right. But … it is._

Her stomach growled. Seeing the toast, she wolfed it down.

She wasn’t tired anymore. Her body was buzzing with energy. She wanted … she wanted to kill something.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike jerked awake when the wind slammed the window shut. It was dusk, and he was alone in the room. He was still deliciously warm and surrounded by the duvet ... like he’d been tucked in. The toast was gone.

_Buggerin’ fuck. How the hell did I miss her leavin’?_

He re-opened the window, sniffing the air. _Can still smell her. Can’t’ve been gone more’n a few minutes. Right._ Spike listened for heartbeats. _Only Dawn’s. Need that bar up ‘fore I go runnin’ off._ He went quietly into Dawn’s room. She was still out like a light.

“Niblet,” he said softly, crouching by her bed and touching her shoulder gently. No reaction. _Bloody brass bands_. “Bit,” he said in a normal speaking voice.

“Mmmm, can’t be school, ‘s weekend,” she mumbled.

“I need you awake now, Dawn.”

At the sound of her name, Dawn woke up. _God, he’s got ... dad voice._

“What?” she said grumpily. Then, suddenly fearing _why_ he was waking her up, “Has something bad happened?”

“No, pet. Nothin’ bad.” He reached out to stroke her hair. “Your sis took off while I was sleepin’, ‘n I don’ think she’s ready to be out on her own yet. Gonna go after her. But it’s dark out, an’ I want tha’ barrier down ‘fore I leave.”

“O-okay,” Dawn said.

“Told you before, ‘m not takin’ risks with you. If you don’ feel right, stayin’ here alone….”

Dawn gave him a small smile. “Go find Buffy. I’ll be okay.”

“Sure?” He looked worried.

Dawn nodded again, getting out of bed. “Go!” She gave him a shove towards the door. He heard her dropping the bar after him.

Spike went back into Buffy’s room, and slipped out the window to track her still-lingering scent. He worked out where she was headed fairly quickly: Sunnydale Memorial, the oldest and largest of the graveyards, and usually the one with the most nasties.

_Slayer wants to play_. He grinned. _This should be fun_.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Giles!” Anya said brightly into the phone.

“Anya! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you…. Is everything alright with the shop?”

“Oh, _please_ don’t worry about the money! I’ve more than doubled our profits since last quarter. But that’s not why I called. We want you to come back.”

“Right. Well.” He paused. Anya imagined he was polishing his glasses. “It’s not … surely it can’t be an apocalypse: it’s October. Why do you want me to come back?”

“Willow did a resurrection spell and brought Buffy back from the dead!”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy had lucked out, finding a vampire nest after only a few minutes of wandering around Sunnydale Memorial. Then she realised she had completely forgotten to bring a stake. _Oh well. Not like I can’t just rip their heads off!_ Part of her knew that this reaction wasn’t quite … normal … for her. But the other part, the Slayer part, thought that fighting without a stake would be ... challenging. Fun, even.

Shouts of “Slayer!” resounded as the vamps woke up. There were ten, in all. A few minutes in, she’d managed to break the spine of one – effectively removing him from the fray, even if he wasn’t dusted – and thrown another into dust onto a handy bit of broken furniture – _why_ did _they always seem to have make-shift stakes lying around in nests? Are vampires naturally both un-clumsy and death-wish-y?_ The other eight were closing around her, several with weapons.

A voice inside of her was saying that this was risky, that she might not be able to get out of this. Another part was excited, almost bouncing with the joy of the violence to come.

They threw themselves on her all at once. None of them were used to fighting in a group, so were hitting each other almost as much as her. She was able to rip out the throat of one of them within seconds – a fighting technique she found she liked even better the second time around – but she took a blow to her body while she was doing it.

“No touching!” she yelled. She could feel her conscious mind retreating, letting the Slayer take control again. Her elbow connected with a nose, snapping back the head and knocking the vampire unconscious, while a spin kick knocked another across the crypt and into a wall, breaking his neck. Only five fighting now.

Spike came into the crypt just in time to see her rip off an ear with her teeth.

“Not fair, Slayer! You’re fighting dirty!” one of the vampires called out.

She cocked her head, a grin splitting her face from ear to ear. “Not dirty. Dusty!” She punched the complaining vampire’s chest, straight through his bones, and pulled out his heart.

“Pretty,” she said, as she crushed the heart into dust; the vampire following soon after. The remaining four – including the earless wonder – started looking terrified about that point. Sure, the Slayer was the bogeyman to vampire-kind, but … this was _excessive_. Out of the vampires she’d taken out, only two were actually dust. _This_ Slayer was known for her puns and her humane kills. What she was doing now, especially with the _smiling_ , was just … creepy.

Two turned tail and ran – straight into Spike, who _had_ brought a stake – and were quickly dusted.

Buffy growled, her eyes feral, as she launched herself at the brave ones. She fought them slowly, playing with them and delivering as much pain as possible. By the time they were gone, she was covered in blood and dust.

Spike had long ago staked the immobilised vamps, and was lounging against the wall, watching her.

She turned towards him, eyes still lost in the fight. _She doesn’ recognise me_ , he realised.

Buffy stalked towards him, licking the blood off her lips. “Vampire,” she growled.

“Slayer … Buffy … you remember Ol’ Spike, don’t you?” he said nervously. Magnificent as it was to watch her take out a nest on her own without a stake, he really didn’t want to join them in dustiness. _Not bein’ able to fight back is gettin’ really fuckin’ old._

She grinned again, cocking her head. “Bring it.”

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“I’ve got it!” Willow said.

“Is it Gozer?” asked Xander. Anya smacked him. “What? We could totally take Mr Stay Puft.”

“What demon is it, Sweetie?”

“It’s not a demon at all. It’s … it’s a manifestation of dark magic, that comes from using the urn of Osiris.”

“So we really _did_ make it happen,” Tara said. _We should never have brought Buffy back_.

“Newton’s laws might not be true for physics, but they still kinda work for magic,” Willow said. “For every action, there is a reaction. If we use the urn of Osiris to bring back something good….”

“Then we get something bad, too,” Xander finished. “Yay, us.”

“Yeah,” Willow continued. “But it’s all good, because the only way it can manifest is if the good thing we brought back dies. And it needs to do it fast – after 24 hours, it’ll just go poof! So, as long as Buffy stays alive until tonight at midnight, all the creepy just goes away on its own.”

Anya turned to Willow, eyes glowing green. “Thank you, witch,” she growled. Anya dropped to the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _First meal all together_

A faint sheen of blood and sweat and dust clung to Buffy’s skin. She was panting slightly, her breasts heaving. She stalked towards Spike, her body poised and ready for a fight. He could smell her anticipation.

And her arousal.

If it weren’t for the fact that the girl had abandoned her body to the Slayer, it would have been one of Spike’s favourite fantasies come true. As it was, he was mostly wishing he hadn’t brought a stake to this particular party.

That and willing his cock to shut up and lie down.

Then he was feeling the rush of air kissing his cheek as he dodged her first kick. He was less successful with her follow-up punch, which glanced off his right shoulder, sending his arm temporarily numb.

She was thinking better, this time – not relying so much on instinct – and it was harder to keep out of her reach. Last night, although her movements had been contained and perfect, there had been no imagination, no poetry. Now, though – now she was dancing to that beat only she could hear, all fluid grace and lethal precision.

He joined her dance, following her lead, letting her breath and her eyes tell him where she was going before she even started the movements. He spun away, drawing her in to chase after him, or he pressed into her, no more than a hair’s breadth between them and too close for her swinging feet or fists to reach. 

_How I love dancing with you._

She was getting frustrated. No matter what she did, she couldn’t seem to fully connect; everything was glancing, oblique. And he hadn’t touched her, not once. She wanted him to.

Then she noticed the stake tucked into his waistband at the small of his back, mostly hidden under his shirt. The next time his back came within reach, she grabbed it.

As soon as he felt the stake being drawn out, he turned to face her. _This is it. Music's stopped and she’s gonna dust me._ She pinned him against a wall, and he closed his eyes, waiting for her to finish him.

But seconds later, he could still feel her breath warm on his face, and when his eyes fluttered open, hers were waiting to catch his gaze. He could see frustrated fury there, and confusion. The tip of the stake was digging into his chest, hard enough to hurt, but not yet breaking the skin. She’d left his arms free, trusting the stake to control him.

“Why won’t you fight back?” she growled.

He raised his arm, so he was half cradling her as she pressed the stake into him. He stroked a lock of hair behind her ear, then ghosted his fingers down the length of her neck and along her upper arm until he was almost cupping her elbow in his hand. His not-quite-touches made her skin buzz, every hair standing on end.

“I can’t,” he said, his eyes soft, still staring into hers.

He made a small pain sound as she pressed the stake in harder.

“Fight me,” she commanded, louder, more frustrated.

“I won’t,” he said, gently, quietly.

“Fight!” she screamed.

“No,” he whispered.

And then he could see the Slayer slipping away and Buffy swimming back to the surface of her jade green eyes.

The stake clattered to the ground.

She stared at him in horrified confusion.

“I almost … why did you let me?” she whispered.

“You didn’t. That’s all that matters.”

He ran his hand back up the outside of her arm, moving to cup her face but still stopping just shy of actual contact. All too briefly, she leaned into his palm and the enclosure of his arm. Connecting.

Then she moved away.

“I remember waking up … and wanting to kill something.”

He smiled proudly. “You took out eight vampires, mostly at the same time, on your own and without a stake.”

“Oh.” She looked around, remembering flashes of movement and sensation, but everything was hazy and dream-like. “Go me, I guess.” She looked down at her filthy pyjamas and bare feet. “I—” she started, then, tasting blood on her lips, “Ewww … is this-?”

He nodded, grinning now. “Bit someone’s ear off.”

Buffy was caught between _ick_ over her clothes and hair and – _double ick_ – mouth, terror over the memory loss, and awed shock that _Spike_ must have been the one who brought the stake. Ick won.

“I think it’s time I spent some quality time with Mr Shower. And mouthwash. Definitely _lots_ of mouthwash.” She started going through everything she remembered from the last 24 hours. Then, looking sideways at Spike, asked, “So do you, like, live with us now?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

When the Scoobies arrived at Revello Drive to warn Buffy, she and Spike had already left. Dawn – from behind her bedroom door – said they’d gone out for an early patrol and would be back soon. She also told them that she wasn’t coming out from behind the barricades until Spike came home.

Dawn worried that mentioning any … oddness … on her sister’s part might draw more suggestions that it would be better to just put her back. She was quite proud of her subterfuge: “early patrol” had a nice ring of truth to it, and her heart rate had stayed nice and steady the entire time.

Having no more information to impart – and feeling more than a little ridiculous talking through a locked door – the Scoobies asked Dawn what she wanted on her pizza and went downstairs to wait.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy burst through the front door, followed by Spike at a more normal speed. She ran straight up the stairs and into her room, without looking around or saying a word.

Spike stopped when he felt the Scoobies staring at him from the living room.

Everyone except Anya was thinking some variation on: _Could he have tried to_ do _something to her? He had delusions that he loved her. Were we wrong to trust him?_

Anya was mentally calculating how much revenue she’d lost by closing the Magic Box for the day.

Willow, heart breaking from Dawn’s pointed display of distrust, was feeling particularly protective towards Buffy. “What did you do to her?” she asked, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“She got a bit mucky on patrol,” Spike ground out. They all heard the shower going on upstairs. “An’ she’ll tell you that herself once she’s done washin’ it off.”

“Oh,” Willow said, embarrassed. “Slayage can get kinda icky.”

Spike leaned against the doorframe, really not wanting to join them, but not wanting to leave either.

“Spike!” shouted Dawn from upstairs. “Is that you?”

“Yeah!” he yelled back. “You can come out now!”

Willow cringed internally at his phrasing. _It’s so unfair I passed out when we got interrupted. Dawnie should have woken up safe at home with no memories of the spell. Stupid demon bikers._

Dawn stomped down the stairs and stood next to Spike. He snaked his arm around her shoulders and pulled her hair.

“Jerk,” she said. She swatted his arm and gave him a shove with her hip.

“Brat,” he replied, shoving back.

They grinned at each other, and Dawn tucked herself into his side, his arm curling protectively around her. There was a softness to his eyes that he hadn’t let out since his turning, and a lightness to hers that everyone thought had left with Joyce.

That was the point at which Xander’s whole world shifted on its axis. Even years later, he would still remember every single detail of the scene.

He’d already known that Dawn and Spike were spending a lot of time together, but this was the first time he’d actually seen them together. He had assumed that Dawn becoming functional again had been all down to Willow and Tara. Spike was just … convenient. Important for things like making dinner – _even if he is more of a Nellie Lovett than Julia Child –_ but definitely not important for the emotional stuff. Only now, seeing this – seeing Dawnie _grinning_ again – he knew in his heart that it had to be Spike who’d made all the difference. _Spike_ made her happy and safe. Xander groaned under his breath. _We make her into a magical zombie and he makes her grin again. Dammit! I_ love _hating that guy!_

Seeing how relaxed and easy Dawn and Spike were together, Willow could feel the jealousy and resentment bubbling up to the surface again. The grinning! _Dawnie hasn’t smiled like that around me since before Joyce died. She should smile like that with_ me, _not Spike!_ Then Willow remembered her guilt, and used it to tamp down everything else.

“Oh, Dawnie!” Willow said, reaching over to the box of store-bought bakery cookies she'd put on the coffee table earlier. “I got you cookies: cranberry and white chocolate.” She smiled shyly, offering the bag. “I know I didn’t bake them myself, but what with the unconsciousness and the researching, I kinda haven’t had time today.”

Dawn’s smile dropped off her face and her eyes went cold. “Spike put a bar on my door so I’d feel safe in my own house. You can’t _buy back my trust_ with your stupid guilt cookies.”

Willow reeled like she’d been slapped.

Just then, a blood-, mud-, and dust-free Buffy came down the stairs and stood in the doorway next to Dawn and Spike.

“Hey guys, what’s with all the unhappy faces? Someone die?” She waited a beat, looking at her friends. “Too soon?”

Not quite sure what to make of the tense silence, Buffy continued into the living room and sat on the sofa next to Willow and Tara. Spike gently nudged Dawn towards the last remaining armchair. She perched on the arm while he sat.

“Since you’re all back here,” Spike finally said, breaking the silence. “I’m guessin’ you’ve worked out what we’ve got to kill?”

“Ooh!” Buffy said. “I’m good at killing. What are we killing?”

“Um,” Willow said, trying to find her equilibrium again. “Buffy, the spell we used when we brought you back had a, like a ‘cosmic balance’ clause, so, to equalise the goodness that we brought back into the world with you, it kinda created some evil to come along for the ride. It’s just energy, with no physical form of its own, but it can, like, body-snatch, and it’s already possessed Dawnie and Tara and Anya, and—”

“And we don’t know how to kill it,” Anya cut in.

“Yet!” Willow corrected. “We don’t know how to kill it _yet_.”

“Bloody brilliant,” Spike sighed.

“On the bright side,” Anya continued. “If it can’t kill Buffy by midnight tonight, it’ll just disappear on its own.”

“B-b-b-but it knows that too,” Tara added. “So it’s probably gonna be trying to kill her soon.”

The doorbell rang. Everyone jumped, startled.

Dawn hopped off the armchair and ran to open the door. Turning back towards the living room, she called out “Pizza’s here! Who’s got cash?”

“Don’t look at me,” Buffy said. “I was all busy being dead until yesterday.”

The delivery guy laughed nervously. Dawn scowled at him.

Much patting down of pockets and searching of wallets ensued, but none of the Scoobies had more than a couple dollars between them.

“God!” Dawn huffed, rolling her eyes. “Which one of you bozos said we’d pay cash on delivery without checking someone had cash first?”

“Uh, that would be me,” Xander said, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

Spike sighed and put his face in his hands. “I’ve got enough to cover it,” he muttered. “But I expect to be paid back!” He looked over at Dawn. “Bit?” he nodded in the direction of his duster hanging on the newel post. “Left pocket.”

Dawn pulled out the biggest roll of twenties she’d ever seen. She liberated a few and paid the delivery guy. Once the door was closed and the pizzas were on the coffee table, she turned to Spike. “That was _not_ poker winnings. What’d you do? Rob a bank?”

“No, I bloody well didn’t!” he retorted, offended. Then he grinned. “Would’ve had much more after a bank job.”

Dawn rolled her eyes again. “You _never_ have this much money, Spike. C’mon, where’d you get it?”

Anya opened her mouth to explain, but Spike barked “Shut it, you!” Anya’s eyes widened and her mouth snapped shut. Now it was her turn to roll her eyes.

“Hey, you can’t talk to Anya like that!” Xander said.

“I’ll talk any way I damn’ well please!” He looked over at Dawn. “’S all legal ‘n’ above-board, Pidge. Swear.” He glared at Anya again.

“Mmmm, pizza!” Buffy said, forcing a grin onto her face. “Let’s eat.”

They managed an uneasy silence through the first few slices.

“I’m getting a soda,” Xander announced, finally. “Anyone else want?”

Willow and Tara’s hands shot up. Anya and Dawn shook their heads.

“Beer for me. As you’re getting’ up,” Spike said, face perfectly bland, but clearly spoiling for an argument.

Xander nodded in assent, clenching and unclenching his fists, chanting, _Must stop hating Spike_ over and over in his head.

“Beer would be good,” Buffy said.

They all stopped and stared at her.

“But … but you _hate_ beer, Buffy,” Willow said. “You’re all ‘beer bad’ and, and … ‘alcohol and Buffy are unmixy things’.”

“Root! I meant root beer,” Buffy covered. “Did I not say the root part out loud?” She forced out another smile. It hurt her face. _Silence is easier_. _I’ll just stop talking now_. She stared at her hands. _Nails are growing back._ _Huh._

Everyone kept staring.

“Ookay, Buff. One root beer, comin’ up,” Xander said, watching Buffy’s face carefully for signs of imminent mental breakdown. He looked over at Willow. “Do you even _have_ root beer?”

Willow shrugged and looked at Tara, who nodded thoughtfully. “I _think_ there’s a can in the fridge, at the very back.”

Xander saluted, and went into the kitchen to get the drinks.

“So,” Willow started. “I have some ideas for how we can keep Buffy safe until midnight.”

Tara smiled at her encouragingly.

“There’s this really great protection spell – it invokes the elemental power of earth to just surround a person so nothing and nobody can get at them.”

Xander was looking straight at Buffy as he came back through from the kitchen, so he saw her full-body flinch at Willow's words. But Willow had turned away slightly – towards the rest of the group – and she missed it entirely.

Spike swallowed a growl, watching Buffy close her eyes and concentrate on taking slow, controlled breaths. He could smell her fear. It was like sickness, rolling off of her in waves. Before all this, he'd only smelled fear on her once: when Glory took Dawn. And even then it hadn't been this strong.

“Uh, Will, maybe _surrounding Buffy with earth_ is not so much of the good right now,” Xander said hesitantly.

Willow made a half-whimper, realising the implication of what she’d said. “O-of course! No surrounding! Um, there’s another elemental protection spell – an air one – that could work.”

Xander passed cans to Tara and Willow, and a bottle to Spike. He put the root beer on the table near Buffy.

“Buffy’s the Slayer,” Dawn said scornfully. “Why would she need a protection spell?”

“She doesn’t,” Spike said. He caught Buffy’s gaze and held it. “Slayer can take anyone in this room, includin’ me.” Buffy almost smiled at him. The fear smell was starting to dissipate.

“Oh, I know she doesn’t _need_ protecting,” Willow faltered. _I just thought it might be_ nice _for her, being protected for once. Let_ us _do the fighting for_ her _sometimes._

Tara took Willow’s hand in hers. “I’m sure there’ll be other times when we’ll need spells like those.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Willow said, trying to smile.

“So do you have other ideas, or was that it?” Anya asked.

“Ahn,” Xander said. “Be nice!”

“Well I don’t want to be possessed again! And I don’t see how a protection-from-harm spell for _Buffy_ will keep _me_ safe.”

“Oh, an elemental spell wouldn’t protect anyone from possession,” Tara said, “because that’s not _harm_ in and of itself. All the really old magic is kinda tricksy that way.”

“Yeah,” Willow said. _I didn’t know that. How did Tara know that? Is she doing magic without me?_ Willow started feeling slightly sick.

“’Kay Wills, what else have you got up your magical sleeves of power?” Xander asked.

“I, um, I had this idea about how we might be able to make the evil thing corporeal. Then we could just regular-kill it.”

“That sounds promising,” Tara said. “What’s the spell?”

Willow brightened a little. “Well, it’s based on some old Hebrew stuff I was reading last month about golems—”

“NO!” Anya shouted. “Golems are a bad, bad idea.” She shuddered. “If the summoner isn’t perfectly pure, they get violent. And not creative, fun, violent either, just endless destruction violent. _And_ they’re really hard to kill.”

“Ookay, so that’s a no to the golem idea, then,” Xander said.

“I wasn’t going to make a golem!” Willow said. _  
_

“Good,” Anya replied.

“Maybe we should try to find a non-magical solution,” Tara suggested quietly.

“Nothing’s happened since it took over Anya at the Magic Box, and that was, what, four hours ago?” Xander looked around. “Maybe it’s given up.”

“Yeah right,” Dawn scoffed. “What Hellmouth did _you_ grow up on?”

Then the power cut out.

Tara turned around to look out past the curtains. “It’s just us. All the other houses on the block still have lights.”

“Xander!” Anya hissed. “Maybe you shouldn’t have suggested that _the manifestation of evil_ gave up.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They fight off the manifestation of evil. Mostly._

With the curtains drawn and the lights out, no one but Spike could see more than an inch in front of them.

"Can’t we please have a break from the creepy soon? I don’t want to be frightened any more, _"_  Dawn whined softly, grabbing onto Spike's hand. 

“This is all your fault, Xander,” Anya said furiously. “It thinks it has something to prove now!” Anya hid her face in his shoulder. _The dark’s not so frightening if I choose not to see._

The house shuddered with something that felt like a sonic boom, then it started pulsing with a heavy baseline so deep it was below even vampire hearing. But they could all feel it, their insides resonating with each pulse.

Anya and Xander were clinging to each other for dear life. Willow and Tara were in a similar position. They all reeked of fear. Buffy sat perfectly still, alone, at the opposite end of the sofa, her hands on her lap. She was completely calm, no trace of fear. _Battle-ready_ , Spike thought.

“The walls are bleeding,” Spike said softly. “Smells like … human.” He could feel bloodlust beginning to rise, but years of living with the chip and fighting alongside the Slayer made it easy to suppress. The blood faded from the walls along with the last of his bloodlust. _Not a_ totally _stupid idea, you wanker. But it won’t work on me._

“Anyone we know?” asked Buffy blandly.

_What the fuck?_

Spike just stared at her for a second. “No.”

 _Are you still with me, Love?_ “Buffy?” he asked tentatively.

Before she could answer, a green light suffused the room.

It was coming from Dawn.

Spike felt a change in her pulse where her wrist lay against his. It stuttered, stopped, then re-started – but arrhythmically, like it was being consciously controlled. Everywhere his skin touched hers felt suddenly dirty, tainted. Pure evil stank from her pores.

Destroy-the-world-just-to-watch-it-burn evil. Dawn wasn’t in control of her body anymore.

She stuttered to a stand, as if drunk. “This vessel is small and undeveloped,” a raspy voice sang out. It wasn’t Dawn’s voice, and it was slightly out of sync with the movements of her lips, like a bad overdub in an old kung fu film.

Glowing green eyes stared at Buffy, lips twisted into a grin. “Is she _your_ child?” the voice asked gleefully. Dawn’s head lolled to one side as the thing inside studied Buffy’s reaction, “Will you hurt her to protect yourself?” The grin shifted into a smirk. “Listen to her noises of pain!”

Dawn’s terrified eyes showed through the glow, just long enough for her to let out a whimpered “Buffy?” in her own voice, before the green took over again.

Buffy knew she _should_ be feeling fear right now, but she wasn’t. Not even for Dawn’s safety. This felt like parlour tricks, trying to get inside their heads. It wasn’t actively hurting anyone. _She_ was the one it wanted dead. And she really couldn’t bring herself to care very much about that. Her body might be fighting to survive, but her mind was still yearning to go back.

Dawn’s body jerked forward, towards Buffy. “Oh, the _power_ in this one! Not sure how to tap into it … yet. Once you’re dead, I think I shall make my home in her permanently. Such _delicious_ skin.” Dawn’s tongue flicked out and circled around her lips. Then the innocence of her features melted into jaded dissipation as she licked slowly and languorously along the vein of her right arm.

Xander didn’t think he’d ever be able to scrub that image out of his soul. Anya was still hiding her face, and he was grateful. No one should ever see a child with that look on her face.

The air was getting heavier, harder to breathe, as the stench of evil continued to pour out of Dawn’s body and the steady strumming base pounded deep into their bones. As the humans in the room breathed in each other’s fear, it multiplied, blossoming in their hearts and minds until their limbs became heavy and weak and despair took hold.

A giggle broke out of Dawn’s lips. Still not Dawn’s voice, but … somehow ... the laughter sounded more like her than the voice did.

Spike was thrumming with contained violence. He understood scare tactics too well to be affected by the nonsense going on around them. His mind was racing, trying desperately to think of a plan. But he couldn’t hurt Dawn’s body, and he had no magic to attack the thing inside her. All he could do was wait. _Jus’ ‘til midnight_ , he kept telling himself. _Then it’s over._

The glowing green eyes stared at Buffy hungrily. “I wonder what _your_ blood tastes like. I bet it’s sweet, like a ripe, juicy peach.” Dawn’s arms drew around her belly, rubbing at it like it ached. “I’m soooo hungry,” the voice whined. Then her hands dropped lower, rubbing between her legs, hips jutting forward in time with her hand. “Mmmmm peaches.”

Tara thought she was going to throw up. But her body felt so weighed down, so hopeless, she wasn’t sure if she even had the energy to bend over. She tried to force her heavy limbs into more contact with her girlfriend. Willow was powerful. Willow wasn’t afraid of magic. _If I can just keep hoping, maybe Willow will feel it, and she can be strong for the both of us._

Willow was losing herself to the darkness. She’d been struggling to pay attention to her surroundings ever since she heard the pulsing, throbbing beat. It called to something inside of her, something she knew she really shouldn’t let out, but it felt _so good_. Like Christmas morning and rich gooey chocolate and the best orgasm she’d ever had all rolled up into one big ball of ecstasy. Her fear and her guilt, concern for her friends – even love for her girlfriend – they all just floated off somewhere far, far away, and she couldn’t even remember what they felt like anymore. She was locked inside her secret place, where there was nothing but pleasure so intense it was almost pain and the whispering promise of untold power that could all be _just for her_ if she would only give in.

She hadn’t given in yet, but she was close.

“Enough warm-up,” Buffy said, genuinely starting to be bored. “Do you want to kill me or what?”

Dawn’s face split into a wide grin, and she ran at Buffy, screeching, hands curved into claws.

Buffy caught her wrists.

And held her off.

Very, very easily.

It was almost … funny.

“So, um, Mr Evil Guy? I think you’re gonna need to add a dose of super-strength to your ‘vessels’ if you ever want to make good on those threats,” Buffy said, a crooked smile flickering across her lips.

Dawn’s body was hissing and spitting now, fighting as hard as it could to break free. But a non-athletic fifteen-year-old was no match for Slayer-strength, and Buffy barely had to try to restrain her sister’s body.

Spike moved to stand with them, and he and Buffy shared a small smile of relief over Dawn’s head.

“That was anti-climactic,” he said. “All that foreplay, and the main event didn’t even last five seconds. Bet the Slayer here can keep goin’ all night, too.” He winked at Buffy.

Dawn stopped struggling, the glowing green eyes fixing themselves on Spike. “Don’t mock, vampire. There are other vessels.” Then the lights in her eyes went out, and Dawn slumped into Buffy’s arms. Buffy turned and gently laid her out on the sofa.

“How long does the sleepy last?” she asked.

“Not long,” Xander said.

The air became a little less heavy. But without the green light, the room was completely dark again.

“I feel better,” Anya said, face still pressed into Xander and eyes shut tightly. “Is it dead?”

The green glow came back.

“Um… guys?” Xander said. “I think it’s found a stronger vessel.”

Spike’s eyes were now glowing green.

“B-b-but his chip!” Tara stammered. “H-he can’t hurt us, right?”

“He could still get a lot of damage in before it stopped him,” Xander said. “Especially if that thing inside him isn’t feeling the pain….”

“No!” cried the voice from Spike’s body, deeper now it had a different set of vocal chords. Spike shut his eyes, plunging the room back into darkness. His whole body was shaking like he was attached to a live wire.

The chittering noises they’d heard at the tower last night came back, louder and scarier.

Buffy put her hand out to touch him, and felt _things_ moving under his skin. She tried to grab at them, but even she couldn’t win demonic whack-a-mole without being able to see.

Not one of them could see a thing.

Spike’s shaking became more violent, and he fell back onto the coffee table, breaking it with a resounding crack, sending drinks and food to the floor. He was thrashing around wildly now, scrabbling for traction, trying to regain control.

His chip was firing nonstop at the evil trying to take up residence in his head, and he’d never been in so much pain. But if he knew anything, it was how to fight demons. Especially the ones in his own head.

They heard one booted foot slam into the wall, breaking through the plaster. Then one of the chairs went airborne. Buffy felt the air moving, and was able to swat it away before it could hit anyone, but she sent it straight through the window, showering Willow, Tara and Dawn with broken glass.

“Yield!” Spike’s invader growled out of Spike’s throat.

The thrashing was starting to get weaker, quieter. The pain was taking its toll.

Dawn struggled back to consciousness. Trying to rub her face, she cut herself on the glass. The tang of her blood in the air was like a jolt of adrenaline for Spike. He found energy reserves he didn’t know he had.

“Get. Out. Of. My. Fuckin’. Head!” his true voice finally screamed out. His whole body was arched into a bow, every muscle and tendon straining with effort and pain.

Then he went completely limp.

The air lightened even more, and hope began to bloom in the human hearts. He’d won.

“Spike?” Dawn whimpered, sitting up.

“Careful, Dawn,” Buffy said. “You’re covered in glass.”

“ _Now_ is it dead?” Anya asked.

The lights flickered back on.

“I’m guessing it’s tired. Or maybe hurt,” Buffy said. _Shouldn’t Spike be making an innuendo now? I think he used to do that a lot. Maybe he’s broken._ She looked over at him. His nose and ears were leaking blood, and he looked unconscious – which meant he looked dead. _But not dust_ y _. Maybe he’ll make innuendos later_.

“It’s only 10:30,” Tara said. “It’s not gonna be dead until midnight.”

Spike groaned. “Oh god, my head.” For a moment the pain made him think he was back in the Initiative labs. Then he recognised the shard of broken table he felt sticking out of his shoulder, and remembered where he was. _Not even back 24 hours an’ I’ve already lost count of how many times I’ve nearly dusted._ He smiled to himself. _An’ I thought life with Dru was living on the soddin’ edge._

Willow blinked owlishly in the light. She felt hung-over and tingly all over, and everything looked a little blurry around the edges.

“Everyone okay?” Xander asked. “I mean, no life threatening injuries or anything?” He wanted to crawl into bed and stay there for a week.

Or, better, crawl into _Anya_ and stay there for a week.

“I’ve got glass shards in my skin!” Dawn whined. “Ow! Who thought it was a good idea to break the window on top of me?”

“It was either that or braining you with a chair,” Buffy said. “I’ll make sure to remember your preference for next time.”

Dawn gingerly got off the sofa and started trying to brush herself off.

“Can we go home now?” Anya asked. “I’m all covered in fear and evil and powerlessness and I really don’t want to be in this room anymore. Also, I really want some oh-thank-gods-we-survived sex before I go to sleep tonight, and if it’s already 10:30, that doesn’t leave much time because I have to get up at 6.”

Xander looked at Anya with true love shining out of his eyes. She glowed back at him.

Everyone else looked _anywhere_ but at Xander and Anya.

“Sure!” Buffy said. “Why don’t you go do that, then.”

Xander and Anya managed not to run out the door. Just.

“Spike?” Dawn called out again. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He moaned, trying to sit up and failing. He was dizzy and shaky and his bones felt like limp noodles. It really didn’t help that he couldn’t see for all the bright white spots. “Bugger!”

“I’m going to open more windows. The air in here is … not healthy,” Tara said. Her nausea was fading, but she kept her movements very slow and careful.

Willow was staring at her hands, trying to remember where she had been during the blackout. Something _important_ had happened. But she couldn’t remember exactly what it was. There was a choice, or something like a choice, but … it was like trying to hold on to dream logic after the alarm went off. Nothing made sense.

“Hey,” Buffy nudged Spike’s hip with her toe. “You need help getting up?”

He nodded, which just made the white spots multiply. Buffy took his hands in hers and pulled. He nearly threw up from the motion. Then the white spots filled his vision entirely.

“I’d put you on the sofa,” Buffy said, “Only it’s kinda covered in glass right now.”

“I’m up,” Spike said. “Up is good.”

His knees buckled.

To stop him from falling, Buffy threw her arms around his chest and he threw his around her shoulders. They swayed, drunkenly, for a moment.

“There now,” he murmured. “Always better when we’re dancin’,” and passed out.

“Help!” Buffy said, suddenly top-heavy with Spike.

Dawn ran over and ducked under one of his shoulders. “I’ve got this side,” she said. The two girls struggled until they had his balance distributed – Buffy still taking most of the weight.

Then Spike woke up.

“’M okay!” he said, straightening and settling his weight over his own feet. He ruffled Dawn’s hair, only slightly leaning on her as he did it. “Brain’s a bit fried. Be fine in a tic with a spot of blood.”

He staggered into the relatively-unscathed dining room and collapsed into one of the chairs. The world was still spinning and _holy fuck!_ his head hurt.

Buffy followed Dawn into the kitchen, and watched her empty a bag of blood from the fridge into an oversized mug - _they make mugs that big? -_  and put it into the microwave.

 _He really lives here, just like he said he did. Huh_.

When the microwave pinged, Dawn put a handful of Weetabix into the mug, and then a dash of some spice Buffy didn’t recognise. Then she ran back into the living room, and practically forced it down Spike’s throat.

“Are you fine now?” Dawn asked anxiously. _Please be alright. I really, really, really can’t handle it if you’re not._

Spike could feel the blood infusion starting to knit things back together in his head. The pain wasn’t going away, but at least he could see now. Mostly. Almost. “How many times do I have to say it, Niblet? ‘M always gonna be fine ‘less I’m dusty.”

“I know,” she whined. “I just….”

“I know,” he said, pulling her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her, and kissing the top of her head. “’S alright. I’m not goin’ anywhere. Never gonna leave you.”

Dawn closed her eyes and let him comfort her.

Buffy suddenly felt she was intruding. And … something else….

_Isn’t Spike … mine?_

Shaking off any thoughts of _owning_ a vampire – that was the way of very, very bad thoughts – Buffy wandered over to the sofa, where Willow was still sitting in a daze.

Buffy only just remembered the glass in time to stop herself from sitting down next to her.

“Hey, Will,” Buffy said. “How ya doin’?”

“Oh, you know,” Willow said, nodding sagely. “It’s all good.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be sitting in broken glass, Will,” Buffy suggested.

“Oh! Yeah!” Willow said, standing up. She was shaky, but she managed it. “Where’s Tara?”

“I think she’s opening all the windows and doors to get the stink of evil out,” Buffy said.

“Good call,” Willow replied.

They stared at each other for a while.

Then Willow’s eyes glowed green.

_Shit._

“This vessel has powers beyond my wildest dreams!” cried the voice.

And then Tara was there, holding the wrong end of one of Buffy’s axes. She cracked it over Willow’s head, rendering her – and the traveller – unconscious.

“Nobody messes with _my_ girl,” she said.

“Nice axing,” Buffy said.

“My first,” Tara replied, smiling widely and proudly.

Exhausted all, the girls started making their way upstairs.

Tara struggled carrying Willow up by herself. Spike, Buffy - even Dawn - had offered to help her, but she wanted to take care of Willow herself.

Usually Willow was the strong one in their relationship. Tara felt proud that she could be the strong one this time.

Plus, since she had hurt Willow’s body, she wanted to be the one taking care of it.

Spike followed Tara upstairs, extra security in case she ever struggled. He was quietly surprised that she never needed his help.

He said goodnight to Dawn in her room – like he did every night – but instead of going straight back down to his room in the basement, he found himself loitering in the hallway outside Buffy’s room.

 _She needed me last night. Will she even_ want _me tonight?_

Buffy came out of the bathroom and saw Spike waiting outside her bedroom door.

Her heart quickened as she came nearer to him.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked, finally.

She looked up at him with wide eyes.

_She doesn’t know what she wants, either._

“I’m not….” _Ready?_

“I’m not gonna push you, pet. I can just sit in the chair and watch over you if that’s what you want.”

The tension flowed out of her. “ _Yes_. Thank you,” she said.

He followed her into her room, shutting the door behind them. She crawled under the covers, watching him as he drew the chair alongside the bed. She inched closer to the edge, close enough to touch, but not making any attempt to do so.

She smiled up at him, and closed her eyes. Within seconds, her heart and her breath told him she was asleep.

_Such trust._

_But still only 11:00. Doubt very much that bastard is done for the night._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The manifestation of evil finally dies. Honest._

Spike had just taken his boots off when the phone rang. Buffy didn’t stir, so he just listened while Tara got up and padded downstairs to answer it.

“Hello?” he heard her say quietly.

Then, “I’m pretty sure she’s asleep. I d-don’t want to wake her.”

_Wonder who the hell that is, ringin’ this late. Gotta be either the Great Forehead or the Watcher. Anyone else’d wait ‘til mornin’._

“Tomorrow afternoon? Really? I can’t believe you managed it,” Tara said.

Another pause. “Willow and I have a heavy day, so we won’t be around ‘til after dinner. But she will be, definitely. And Spike, once he wakes up.”

A very long pause. Spike grinned to himself. _Somebody doesn’ like_ that _very much._

“Yes, really. For months.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Well maybe if you’d stayed, we wouldn’t have needed him to!” Tara almost shouted.

_Watcher, callin’ from the airport, I reckon._

_An’ they’re admittin’ to_ needin’ _me now?_

“Fine. See you tomorrow.”

Tara hung up, and dragged herself back up the stairs. _Wait, did I just_ defend _Spike?_ When she reached Buffy’s bedroom, she paused.

“Spike? Are you in there?”

He got up from the chair, and opened the door very slightly.

She smiled, weakly. _How did we get here? He’s spending the night in Buffy’s room, watching her sleep, and we’re letting him do it. Encouraging him, even! We used to freak and call him a stalker when he just sat outside her window and smoked all night._

“That was Mr Giles,” she said. “He’s about to get on a plane,”

_Ha!_

“He’ll be getting into LAX around noon, then he’s going to get a rental and drive straight here, to the house. I … I just thought you should know.”

Tara twisted her fingers together, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. In all these months, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d actually had a conversation with Spike. When they needed to communicate, they left each other notes. Or they asked Dawn to pass on messages. It felt weird, having this very normal conversation with him, at Buffy’s bedroom door. Like they were just regular people who lived together.

Spike would have appreciated the gesture, once. As it was, he was still angry about Dawn, so he just grunted out “Ta for lettin’ us know,” and closed the door gently but firmly in her face.

He turned around to see Buffy wide awake with the cuticle knife in her hand, poised to slit her own throat. Her eyes glowed green.

"Oh for fuck’s sake. Why won’t you just stay down?" 

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles sat rigidly in the departure lounge, his mind racing. _Spike_ was living in the house. Spike!

The last time he’d seen the vampire was at the bottom of the tower. Giles was slightly ashamed to admit it to himself, but he hadn’t thought once about him since then.

_Why on earth is he still hanging about? Without Buffy to feed his disgusting obsession, what could be keeping him in Sunnydale?_

Giles suddenly felt sick. Dawn was about to turn fifteen. Almost exactly the same age Buffy had been when Angel had come into her life.

_Dear Lord. Could he have transferred his affections?_

_No, Tara would have said something if that’s what was happening. She said he hasn’t tried to hurt any of them yet._

_What can he possibly be playing at?_

Giles rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. _Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. We’ll stop him somehow._

_Now that Buffy is back._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike dove for the bed, knocking the knife out of Buffy’s hands before it could do more than just break the skin. The first tendrils of the scent of her blood curled into the air.

The thing inside of Buffy twisted her face into a snarl. Spike’s hands were locked around her wrists as they rolled around the bed, each trying to gain control.

“I will destroy this body,” the voice grated out of her lips.

“You bloody will not,” Spike grunted.

They fell off the bed with a thud. Buffy landed straddled on Spike and started to squeeze her knees around his chest, constricting his lungs.

“I’m a _vampire_ , you pillock!” he gasped out with the last of his air. _Breathin’s sodding optional!_

Tara heard the thud from the hallway. “Buffy?” she called out tentatively. “Everything all right in there?”

Spike got his feet under him and thrust up, managing to reverse their positions. He held her wrists over her head, his hips pressing her down into the floor. _Almost…._

Worried when she received no answer, Tara opened the door. She gasped. _Is he-?_ “What are you doing to her?!” she cried, looking around for a weapon. Grabbing the lamp off the bedside table, she brought it down on Spike’s head.

“ _Ow_!” Spike bellowed.

The room was plunged into darkness, the only light coming from the hallway.

 _And from Buffy’s eyes!_ Tara was horrified when she realised what she had done. “Oh goddess, Spike, I’m so sorry!” She backed out of the room, wringing her hands.

But the damage was already done. Tara’s distraction had been enough to allow Buffy’s body to wriggle out from beneath Spike.

She snatched up a shard of broken lamp and started sawing along the vein at her wrist. The scent of her blood flooded the air.

Spike went straight into game face.

“No!” he growled, grabbing hold of her wrists again. But the one she’d managed to cut open was now slick and slippery with blood, and he couldn’t keep hold of it.

“I’ll get bandages,” Tara said, running for the first aid kit downstairs. _This is all my fault. He had her under control before I came in._

“The heart beats so _fast_ ,” the voice rasped. “All that delicious blood pumping out. Don’t you want to taste it?” Buffy’s wrist jerked in front of Spike’s face, rubbing the wound against his lips.

He snarled. _God, the taste! Power and life and sex_. _Almost forgotten the rush of Slayer blood_. He shuddered, his tongue lapping at the wrist pressed to his face. _Shagged Dru for two days straight last time._

Unable to stop himself, he ground into Buffy, desperate for friction. Her body went still under him, the thing inside sure it had won, that the vampire would drain the body dry.

But Spike never let his fangs touch her, and he could feel the blood flow slowing down as the coagulants in his saliva and Buffy’s Slayer healing combined. With just a few sips, he felt giddy, almost giggly, and _fuck! so hard it hurt_. All his injuries were healed and he was buzzing with energy.

He could feel a scab forming, and the desire to suck just a little bit harder – to let more of her luscious blood flow out of her wrist and into his mouth – was almost irresistible. Almost.

He let go of her wrist with a soft pop.

“Was it good for you, pet?” he snickered.

The thing realised the wrist wound was no longer bleeding. Enraged, it reared back and head-butted Spike.

Still a bit fuzzy from afterglow, he rocked backwards, letting go again.

Buffy sprang to her feet, and punched the mirror over the vanity, shattering the glass.

As she scrabbled to open her jugular with a mirror shard, Spike decided he needed to follow Tara’s lead and just knock Buffy out. Bracing himself for the pain, he drew back and punched her full-force in the face.

His chip didn’t fire.

He was so shocked he just let Buffy slump to the ground. He dropped out of game face.

 _Chip didn’t fire_.

He heard Tara coming up the stairs, and immediately started feigning pain, clutching at his head and letting himself fall to his knees.

_Did it get fried completely tonight? Am I … free?_

Still in a daze, Spike sat on the floor while Tara pulled the unconscious Buffy up into a sitting position against the bed, brushing glass out of her pyjamas, wiping her fist with antiseptic, and finally putting a bandage on her wrist. Tara gave him a long hard stare when she saw how clean the wound was and how much it had healed, but she said nothing.

“It’s midnight,” Tara said, finally. “It’s over.”

“Right,” Spike said. “Good.” _Is_ everything _over? If I’m not chipped anymore…._

Buffy came to with a whimper. She grabbed onto Tara’s wrist, making the other girl wince, eyes tearing from the pain.

“Is it dead?” Buffy asked, gasping, trying to figure out whether she was happy or disappointed that she was still alive.

“It’s dead,” Tara said, trying to pull out of Buffy’s death-grip.

Buffy leaned back against the bed and closed her eyes, finally letting Tara go. A shudder sped through her body. Then a sob. _I am so tired of fighting to stay alive. It hurts._ She wrapped herself around her knees, burying her face and letting the tears take over.

Tara wanted so much to comfort her, hug her, something. But she was worried her wrist was broken, and she was exhausted and anxious. She settled for laying her good hand on Buffy’s shoulder and squeezing gently.

Spike watched them. _Could drain her dry right now. She’s weak an’ scared – wouldn’ fight back._

_If I wanted to._

The taste of Slayer blood turned bitter in his mouth and his stomach lurched queasily.

 _Don’ think I could survive her dyin’ again._ Know _Dawn couldn’t._

Buffy’s sobbing was getting worse, memories of being in the coffin merging with being unable to control her own body. _Trapped._ “Dark,” she whimpered. _Need to get out_.

Spike staggered to his feet and turned on the overhead light.

“No more darkness, Love.”

_Chip doesn’ matter. Not now. Made my choice. No goin’ back._

He walked over to where Buffy sat huddled on the floor and scooped her up into his arms. He looked over at Tara. “You go on to bed. ‘Ve got it from here.”

Tara nodded, grateful, and gingerly got to her feet. “G’night,” she said, leaving the room and shutting the door softly behind her.

“Shhh, Sweetling,” Spike murmured, nuzzling his cheek in Buffy’s hair. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” _Still can’t stand to see you hurt. My strong girl._

Buffy curled her fingers into his shirt. There was light behind her closed eyelids. She wasn’t in the dark anymore.

He pulled back the cover and laid her down on the bed. She was still crying, but more quietly now, her knees drawn up to her chest, and her fingers still clutching at his shirt.

“Stay,” she whispered. _Make me feel safe again._

He lay down beside her on the bed, gently shifting both of them around until he was lying at her back, surrounding her. She could feel his erection jutting into her, but his whispered, “’M sorry ‘bout that. Only a man,” made her smile. He didn’t _expect_ anything from her. It felt so freeing. Easy, when everything else was hard.

Spike held her while she cried herself into a dozing sleep. She slipped into nightmares a few times, but his whispered reminders that she was safe in her own bed, with all the lights on, made it easy for her to slip back out of them.

He stayed awake all night, just holding her. She was so _warm_ , and she smelled so good. And she wanted _him_ , there, with her, in her bed. He was awed and terrified and on sensory overload and so turned on he was sure it was only a matter of time before his balls turned inside out and his cock exploded. It was exquisite torture and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

When Spike heard Dawn’s alarm going off next door, he reluctantly started pulling himself away from Buffy. “Time for me to go, Love. Gotta get Dawn off to school.”

Buffy made a kittenish mewling noise, and curled into a smaller ball. _Bloody adorable, you are._ He slipped out of bed, tucking the duvet back around her.

Her bedroom was a wreck. Vanity mirror and lamp smashed, broken glass all over the floor, furniture shoved all over the place. Spike sighed and stepped into his boots, kicking as much glass as he could away from the side of the bed. _Gonna have to do for the moment._

He left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Going to Dawn’s door, he knocked. _We’re buggered if that alarm hasn’t woken her up. Can’t get in anymore._ “Bit?” he called _._ “You awake?”

“No, Spike,” she called back. “I’m sound asleep.”

“Tha’s alright then,” he said. “You gonna have that sugary shite for breakfast? Or do you want somethin’ hot?”

“Cereal’s fine,” Dawn said, coming out of her bedroom.

“Right then,” he said, ruffling her hair. “I’m gonna go suss out the damage downstairs. There’s nothin’ in the fridge for lunch. D’you need cash?”

“Nuh-uh.” Dawn shoved him towards the stairs on her way to the bathroom. “Go clean.”

“Oi!”

Dawn smirked.

Downstairs looked worse in daylight. There was a hole in the wall the size of a dinner plate. The coffee table was smashed to pieces, and the rug had ground-in pizza and soda all over it. The armchair Buffy had thrown through the window had knocked all the glass out, and was now shredded to ribbons and sitting half-in, half-out of the house.

Most depressingly, a piece of the table was sticking out of the TV.

_Bugger._

He really had intended to start cleaning up, but the armchair had also ripped the curtain rod out of the wall, and now the whole room was bathed in early morning sunshine. He couldn’t even get past the doorway.

Spike went into the kitchen. Normally, he’d be making himself a mug of blood about now, but he was still full. He absently started loading the dishwasher. He’d just switched it on when Dawn came in, showered and dressed.

“Guess you’re excused from cleaning, huh?” she said, pouring herself a bowl of cereal.

“’S a bit bright for me in there right now.” He grinned. “Lucky, innit?”

“Jammy bastard,” she tried to mimic his accent.

Spike gave her a pained look. “You promised to stop murdering the accent, pet. That was worse than my attempts at surfer.”

“Was not!”

“Was too!”

Dawn stuck her tongue out at him.

“Eat your cereal. Xander’ll be here in a minute.”

“Fine,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “You going to bed now?”

“In a minute. Gonna grab a shower first.” He paused in the doorway to the dining room. “You okay? Drivin’ in with Xander?”

Dawn nodded. “I’m pretty mad at him, but I don’t think I’m in any danger.”

Spike nodded. “Alright, ‘s your call. But you say the word….”

“I know.”

Spike ran his hand over her head and went upstairs.                                   

Just as the Dawn heard the shower going on, Xander came through the kitchen door.

“Hey, you ready to go?” he asked.

Dawn nodded. “Still not talking to you, though.”

Xander sighed. “Look, Dawn, what Willow did ... what _we_ did. It was really wrong. Maybe even unforgiveable. It scares _me_. I can’t even imagine how scared you must have been.”

Dawn looked at him. “It should scare you.”

“I know it’s gonna take some time for you to trust any of us again, and that’s cool. Take as much time as you need. But … I want you to know that I love you like a sister, Dawnie, and … I just … I’m really, really sorry.”

“I believe you,” Dawn said quietly. “And I get that you weren’t exactly in on the decision. But you’re right, it’s gonna take some time.” She straightened her shoulders and picked up her backpack. “C’mon. We should go or I’m gonna be late.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The shower did not provide anywhere near the relief that Spike had hoped it would.

_Soddin’ aphrodisiac Slayer blood._

He went to bed cleaner, but no less hard.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Giles is back and we get inside Buffy's head a little_

Buffy, Tara and Willow all woke up groggy and exhausted. After minimal speech and long showers, they gathered in the living room to survey the damage.

“Hoo boy,” Buffy sighed.

“Everything is better with breakfast,” Tara said. “C’mon. Will and I don’t need to leave for another couple hours. We’ll eat pancakes, and then we’ll clean. It’ll be like fun bonding time.”

“Please don’t tell me that’s ever worked with Dawn,” Buffy said.

“I keep hoping… but no.” Tara smiled weakly.

Willow linked her arm through Buffy’s, and tugged her towards the kitchen. Buffy was stiff and unresponsive, and didn’t return Willow’s encouraging smile. She seems so sad. We survived an evil thingy, we should be all triumphant now.

Buffy could sense Willow’s disappointment. She thought maybe if she tried a little harder, she'd be able to force out a smile. Buffy grimaced. Maybe not.

Tara and Willow bustled around the kitchen, leaving Buffy sitting at the counter staring off into space. The silence was awkward, but not entirely uncomfortable.

When they were all seated with plates of pancakes and mugs of coffee, Tara said, “So Mr Giles called last night. He’s going to come straight here sometime this afternoon.”

Buffy smiled, a real smile. “That’s good.”

“I’m amazed he got a flight so quickly,” Willow said.

“Um,” Tara started. “H-how are you feeling this morning, Buffy?”

“Peachy. With a side of keen.” Buffy wasn’t meeting their eyes. She made a better attempt at a smile, then held up her wrist to Tara. It was still red and angry, but the cut was now completely closed over. “And look ma, no bandages. Yay Slayer healing.”

Tara’s eyes opened wide. That was deep enough to kill last night….

“W-what happened?” Willow asked. That Tara and Buffy know about and I don’t?

“The traveller made a last-ditch attempt, after you were unconscious,” Tara explained. “It p-p-p-possessed Buffy and tried to get her to k-kill herself.”

“Oh,” Willow said. Sounds like lots happened while I was unconscious.

“Where’s Spike?” Buffy asked. When they didn’t immediately answer, she looked worried and confused. “I mean, he really does live here. Right?” God, conversation is exhausting.

Why is she asking about Spike? Willow wondered. It’s not like she’s still all feral-Buffy and needs him to keep her from hurting people. “Um, in his room sleeping, I guess?” she said. “He kinda fixed up the basement,” she added.

Spike lives in my basement. Not in my bedroom.

Guessing Buffy’s real question was ‘why wasn’t he there when I woke up’, Tara said, “Spike gets Dawn up for school in the mornings – makes her breakfast and stuff. I’m sure that’s why he left—”

Tara cut herself off abruptly. Willow had told her that Buffy had issues with people leaving, but Tara wasn’t sure whether she officially knew that. Plus, she didn’t know how open Buffy wanted to be about Spike staying in her room. She’d nearly gotten Buffy killed last night by jumping to conclusions; she really didn’t want to do it again.

“Oh,” Buffy said. Spike was with Dawn. And is now sleeping. Huh. Buffy looked down at her plate. Do I need a knife for pancakes? She watched Tara and Willow eating. Not using knives. Just a fork then. She took a bite of pancake. I can do this. This can’t be harder than pizza.

Buffy managed to eat one pancake. It still felt a little overwhelming. She hoped cleaning would be easier.

“Xander can board up the window later,” Willow said as the three women returned to the living room. “And maybe re-plaster the wall.”

Buffy went over to the armchair that was stuck in the window, and pulled it out one-handed. “I don’t think this is recoverable. Or maybe it could be? You know, re-covered. What do you think?”

Tara looked at the chair. “I think it’s a goner. At least one leg is broken.”

Buffy carried the chair out the front door, and put it on the curb. Then the TV.

Tara was gathering up the food and pieces of coffee table into a garbage bag.

Willow just stood and watched them. There’s got to be an easier way to do this. She thought through several possible incantations, and finally decided on one. Whispering under her breath, she released the spell while Tara was putting the now-full garbage bag outside and Buffy was getting out the vacuum cleaner.

All the glass and other debris whirled up and around the room, hanging like mist for a few seconds, before Willow brought it all together into a glittering mini-cyclone. With a small pop, it all dropped into the garbage bag Willow was holding open.

Smiling, she looked up from her handiwork to see Tara and Buffy staring at her from the doorway.

“Willow,” Tara said, shocked. “What was that?”

“I got rid of all the glass. Neat, huh?” Willow grinned.

Tara gave her a watery smile. “We could have just vacuumed.” This is wrong.

“Yeah, but, hey! This way is much quicker.”

“I’m gonna go deal with the mess in my room,” Buffy said, taking the vacuum upstairs. Cleaning is uncomplicated. I can do cleaning.

Willow and Tara watched her go.

“Is she okay?” Willow asked. “Was it bad? What happened last night?”

“It was scarier for me than it was for them, I think,” Tara said, rubbing at her wrist – still sore, but thankfully not broken. “Spike just restrained her,” Tara said, dismissing last night with a wave of her hand.

Spike! Pfft! Willow thought.

“But Willow,” Tara continued. “That wasn’t right, what you did. You can’t use magic for cleaning.”

“Aw c’mon, Baby,” Willow said. “It was just a little spell.”

Tara sighed. I shouldn’t have to explain this. I really don’t want to have to explain this. Later. We’ll talk about it later, when I’m not so tired. “Help me take the rug out?”

Willow nodded.

With the rug gone, all that was left was putting the curtain rod back up, plastering the wall and boarding the window – all of which could wait until Xander came with tools.

Buffy came downstairs with a garbage bag and the vacuum.

“All done. Now we just need to buy some new stuff. Who’s up for shopping?” God, the mall, all those people. Buffy shuddered. But retail therapy is good. I think.

Willow and Tara looked at each other, then at Buffy, both thinking, she doesn’t know about the money.

“Uh, Buffy,” Willow said tentatively. “I know you're still getting back on your feet after….”

“Lying flat on my back?” Buffy said.

Tara and Willow winced.

“Um. Yeah,” Willow faltered. “There's some money stuff we have to talk to you about.”

“As in, you’re almost out of it,” Tara added.

“But, I haven't spent any money.” Buffy said, confused. “I was all dead and frugal.”

“I know, this comes as a bit of a shock after ... a bit of a shock. It caught us by surprise, too,” Tara said sympathetically. “Maybe you should sit down.”

Buffy frowned, but went to sit on the sofa. Willow and Tara sat down on either side of her.

“Your Mom prepared everything really well,” Willow said. “She had insurance. Um. Life insurance.”

Mom died. That’s why she’s gone. Buffy suddenly felt tears welling up.

She survived cancer, but then she died. Right here on this couch.

Can’t cry now. Talking. Money. Shopping. Buffy pulled her spine up straighter, shoving down the grief trying to break free.

“Which should have left you covered,” Tara continued. “Except … hospital bills.”

“They pretty much sucked up all the money.” Willow put her arms around Buffy and gave her a light hug. Buffy was still staring straight ahead, body rigid. “Which you're still kinda haemorrhaging, by the way.”

“How'd I do that?” Buffy asked, dazed. Haemorrhaging is blood. I’m not bleeding anymore. Am I? She looked at her wrist. All healed up.

“Not you,” Tara said. “The house. See, this house, just sitting here, doing nothing, in itself costs money.”

Buffy started laughing. Willow let go of her, shocked.

Buffy stopped laughing abruptly. No laughing. “So I'm broke?” Buffy said. At least it’s not evil. And no one else is dead. Except Spike. He’s evil and dead.

“Not yet,” Tara hedged. “But….”

“Shopping for new furniture is definitely not an option right now,” Willow said firmly.

“Right,” Buffy said. “No retail therapy.” Buffy’s face went still, and she just stared straight ahead. I don’t know how to do this. Any of it. And they expect me to fix everything. All she wanted to do was crawl back into bed. Or maybe kill something. Killing something would be better.

“Um, Buffy, we gotta get to class now,” Willow said awkwardly. “Are you okay? Because if you need us to stay, we could maybe skip?”

Tara nodded encouragingly.

Buffy looked up at them. “Huh? Oh, no, I’m fine. You go. Learn stuff.” She practiced her fake smile again. It was looking almost natural now. “I’ll go to the bank later. They help with stuff like this, right? Loans and … stuff.”

Willow grinned at her. She’s getting better. “That sounds great, Buffy!”

“We’ll be home late tonight,” Tara said. “So, see you then?”

Buffy nodded, losing the energy to keep her smile in place.

Willow and Tara gathered up their things and left.

Buffy just sat there, staring at the spot where the TV used to be, and tried to remember how she used to cope. She was drowning under the weight of expectations. Suffocating. Again. She could feel tears coming.

It was a relief when the doorbell rang. She forced herself to suppress the bad thoughts.

It was so much more of a relief when she realised it was Giles.

They just stood there, on either side of the doorway for a second, staring at each other.

“My God, Buffy,” he said. “You're alive. You're here.” Then Buffy threw herself into his arms, hugging him as hard as she could. “And you're still” – he grunted, feeling a rib crack – “remarkably strong.”

“Huh? Oh. Sorry.” Buffy backed off, then hugged him again, only breaking away when his back-patting became frantic from lack of oxygen.

“Anya told me … and Tara,” Giles wheezed. “But I didn’t really let myself believe….”

“I take some getting used to. I'm still getting used to me.” Buffy smiled, shyly. It is so good to see you again.

“It's ... you're a….”

“A miracle?”

“Yes. But then, I've always thought so.” He touched her face. My Buffy. Alive.

Buffy grabbed the suitcase out of his hand, and pulled him into the house.

“Tea?” Buffy asked, heading into the kitchen. “We have lots.”

Giles stared at the assortment of boxes she was pointing at. Every herbal concoction known to man or Wicca, plus Assam, Earl Grey and a box of PG Tips. Different people live here now. Spike lives here now.

“PG, please, Buffy.” Every time he said her name something within him sang. “So….”

“I can start,” she said, putting on the kettle. Boiling water for tea. I can do this. “How was England?” Her face started to drag around the edges. “How was … life?” You were alive and I … was not.

“I'm not sure how to answer that. I arrived home. Met with the council.”

“Tons of fun.” Didn’t we stop working with them? No, they … they came back last year, for something. I can’t remember….

Giles nodded. “Other than that, there isn't much to report. I keep a flat in Bath. Saw a few old friends and almost made a new one, which I believe is statistically impossible for a man my age.” He smiled weakly.

“What about Jenny?” Buffy asked, getting out a mug and putting in a teabag.

“J-Jenny?” Giles stammered. Images of roses and the scent of death rushed into his mind. A baseball bat. Such unbearable pain.

“Yeah, you know, your ‘orgasm friend’. Who left because things here were too weird.” Buffy tried to make her voice light and teasing, but she had a sinking feeling she’d made a mistake. She’d forgotten something important. Why did I think it would be funny to ask about the orgasm friend? What’s wrong with me? Her hands were shaking when she poured the water into the mug.

“O-Olivia, you mean.” Giles’ heart was stuttering in his chest as he tried to get to grips with what he was hearing.

“Right,” Buffy said, trying to smile, stirring milk into the tea. “Olivia. Of course. So,” Buffy’s voice got very small and scared. “Who’s Jenny then?”

“A … an old girlfriend who – who died.” Dear god, she’s not…. How much of her memory – this is…. Giles’ brain stuttered to a stop.

Buffy passed him the mug of tea. Their eyes met.

“Sorry. My bad,” Buffy said. He knows something’s wrong.

“It’s alright.” Something’s terribly wrong. “Buffy … to return from some unknown level of Hell ... it's only natural coming back would be a process.”

She laughed; it was not a happy sound. Should I tell him? “And in the meantime, I'm scaring people.” Almost killed Dawn.

“That may take some time, too.” What did Willow do? Was it the interruption? Could she have made a mistake in the ritual?

“Good. I've always hoped to freak out the people who love me. And not just in the short-term, but you know – as a lifestyle.” Life. My life. Living.

“If it's any consolation, life can get overwhelming even for people who haven't been ... where you have.” Giles took a sip of his tea. He didn’t taste it.

“I guess, but I don't know, Giles, I mean ... spoons are still weird to me. And I know my … my memory isn’t … right.” Buffy’s voice was breaking. Please don’t make me talk about what I’ve forgotten. Her eyes were wide and scared.

“You mustn’t put too much pressure on yourself.” He sighed. I wonder how much the others have noticed. “You’ve got friends who – I’m sure we all just want to help.”

“Sure. Friends.” Who pulled me out of heaven. Great friends. “They’re all real helpful.”

“Tara … Tara said that Spike was living here now.”

“Yeah, that surprised me too. He looks after Dawn.” And me, now, I guess. Nanny Spike. Buffy suppressed a giggle.

Giles gave her an odd look. “And he’s been … behaving himself? Since your return?”

Buffy was unable to hold the next giggle in. “He’s been better behaved than me,” she said. Giles looked slightly sick. Buffy’s face went still and serious. “I wasn’t … myself … at first. Spike was the only one who was strong enough to….” she trailed off. “I tried to kill Dawn.”

Giles’ stomach dropped. “Oh Buffy.” My poor dear girl. “But, she’s alright? I mean….”

Buffy nodded. “Spike stopped me in time.” That time.

Giles nodded. I never thought I would be grateful for Spike. I don’t think her mind would have survived had she been successful. “Anya said there was a manifestation of evil magic, possessions….”

Sure. Possession. “Yeah, it’s been non-stop fun here on the Hellmouth!” She paused. “All the evil is dead now, though.” And I’m still alive.

“Good. That’s good.” Giles sipped his tea again. “You look tired.” More like exhausted. Broken.

“Nah. Well. All fight and no sleep makes for a tired Buffy. But I’m sure now it’s calmed down I’ll sleep okay. Great even, except for, you know ... the dreams….” Buffy’s eyes were haunted. She started staring into space again.

Giles put down his mug, and gently laid his hand on her shoulder. “You seem to be doing remarkably well under extreme circumstances. I'm proud of you.”

Proud. Huh. “Well, you know, it wasn't me. Willow brought me back. I just lay there.”

“Yes. I only meant—”

“I know what you meant. Just a little post post-mortem comedy….” Buffy smiled her fake smile again. I’m getting better at this. “Anyway, I better get going. I need to go talk to the bank about a loan.”

“A loan?”

“One of my fun surprises? Turns out the money mom left me got squandered on luxuries like food and clothing.”

I suppose it would do … the medical bills can’t have been cheap. “How bad is it?” Ha! What a question.

“Willow says bad. I'm kinda taking her word for it. Complex financial issues are … complex, right now.”

“Yes. I can imagine they would be.” She couldn’t remember Dawn … can’t remember Jenny. Can she even do this?

Buffy stared off into the distance again. I’ll get a loan. It’ll be fine. She turned to Giles. “I'm glad you're back.”

“I'm glad you are too.” And it was true, he was, but he was also worried about what exactly was back, and what was … not.

Giles sat finishing his tea, while he listened to Buffy get ready to leave.

I need a proper drink.

When he heard the door shut behind her, Giles started looking through cupboards. He was pleasantly surprised when he found the bottle of Laphroig. He didn’t remember Joyce liking whiskey much, and he couldn’t imagine anyone else in the house—

Spike. This must be Spike’s. Because Spike lives here.

Giles filled his glass to the brim.

This can’t be real. She’s alive, but she’s not back. Spike lives here – saved Dawn from Buffy. Dawn, who should have died.

Spike watched him take the first sip from the basement doorway.

“’Lo, Rupes. See you’ve found my stash.”

Giles jumped.

“Bit early, though, innit?” Spike smirked. “Don’t you know you’ll never find anythin' but trouble and pain at the bottom of a bottle?”

A thousand possible retorts flew through Giles’ head, but in the end he opted for the truth. “I just spoke to Buffy. I needed … something.”

“So,” Spike sighed, no longer in the mood for teasing. “What did she forget?”

“Not what, who. Jenny.”

“That gypsy bird Angelus killed?”

Giles nodded, taking another swallow of whiskey. Whatever his vices, Spike doesn’t lie. Not when it hurts more to tell the truth. “How bad is it? Really?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Giles and Spike talk about redemption._

When Buffy left the bank, she found her feet taking her to the Magic Box instead of home.

_Mortgage already worth more than the house. No other assets. No job. No loan._

The bell tinkled over her head. Anya looked up from the counter.

“Buffy! Why are you here? Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

Anya stared at her, getting steadily more anxious as she imagined all of the things that could possibly be going wrong.

 _Oh! Waiting for me to talk._  “Willow told me I’m broke,” she said. “And the bank says I’m a bad risk.”

“Well, you are,” Anya agreed, not sure where this was going.

“You’re … passionate … about money,” Buffy said, realising why she’d come. Anya preened. “What do you think I should do?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike and Giles were sitting across from each other at the dining room table, bottle of whiskey between them.

“She had to dig her way out of the grave,” Spike said, rolling his empty glass between his fingers.

Giles inhaled sharply.

“An’ for a while, she … all that was left was the demon essence, the Slayer. Like an animal – all about survival. She took out a whole hellion gang.” Spike smiled proudly. “It was somethin’ else, seein’ that.”

“Dear Lord,” Giles whispered.

“But Buffy the girl was … hidin’, I guess. Too much to cope with.”

“A-and her … attack … on Dawn?”

Spike growled. “It was Dawn made her come back to herself again. Buffy thinks she was gonna kill her. She wasn’t.  _Almost_ doin’ it snapped her out of it.”

 “She said you stopped her.”

“Would’ve.” Spike stared hard at Giles, daring him to disagree. “Didn’ need to, thank fuck _._ ”

“Right.” Giles paused.

Spike poured whiskey into his glass for the first time, and took a small sip.

_This is not the vampire I remember. He’s so contained, controlled._

“Buffy said her memories weren’t….”

“They’re patchy. She said yesterday she only remembers the bad things.” He looked straight at Giles. “Almost glad to hear she’s forgotten about that gypsy … means the loss isn’ so specific.” Spike looked away again. “Dunno if it’s Red’s spell or the … trauma, I guess you’d call it.”  _Ripped out of heaven. Beyond trauma._ Spike paused. “Whichever it is, she’s still going into … like a fugue state … when she feels threatened. An’ the nightmares’re bad. She’s scared of the dark now. Proper scared.”

“How do you know about her nightmares?” Giles asked coldly. This _is Spike. Taking advantage._

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Spike said, suddenly exhausted. “ _I would never hurt her!_  What do I have to do to prove that to you lot?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“I think your first step should be to start charging rent to all the people who live in your house,” Anya said firmly.

“Wha-huh?” Buffy said.

“I admit, they have some right to be there because of Dawn. Her care has value. But three adults living in your house for free while you’re dead  _and_ paying all the bills is … well it’s un-American.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“I don’t like you, Spike. I never have, and I suspect I never will.”

Spike laughed and raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

“I asked you once whether you’d ever considered that your chip might be serving a higher purpose…. Do you remember?”

“’Course. Was a stupid idea then, ‘s just as stupid now.”

Giles laughed. “And  _that_ ,” he said, pointing his glass at Spike and then drinking it down, “is why nothing you do will  _ever_ be enough.”

Spike growled. “Why are you tryin’ to make me into my great lummox of a grandsire? We’re no more the same than you an’ whatever tweedy bugger runs the Wankers’ Council these days. So ‘Angel’ is after redemption?” Spike sneered. “Fair play to him. Don’ see why that makes him so soddin’ special. He never made peace with his demon, an’ now he pretends there’s nothing of Angelus left in him. Oh no!  _completely_ different soddin’ vampire. Well. I could tell you stories – things he’s done since gettin’ that shiny soul of his – that would make your hair curl. I’m sick and bloody tired of always bein’ compared to him. Over a hundred soddin’ years of it now! We. Are. Nothing. Alike. Never have been; never will be.”

“I don’t like him, either, you know,” Giles said drily.

“But you trust him, don’t you?” Spike laughed bitterly. “More’n you do me, anyway.” He downed the rest of his whiskey and poured himself another. “He leaves – ‘cause his blessed path of redemption trumps everyone else’s needs – an’ this makes him noble or some such rot, while  _I_  get punished for havin’ the temerity to stick around in whatever mess he’s left behind. Dunno why I bloody bother.”

“Why do you bother?” Giles asked, genuinely curious.

Spike groaned. “For a smart man, you aren’t half bloody thick. For love! For  _them_. Dru. Joyce. Buffy. Niblet. My  _family_. Don’ care about any o’ the other shite. ‘Spect I never will.”

“But don’t you see? Without that ‘other shite’, there’s nothing to hold you to your so-called family.” Giles took a swallow of whiskey. “You can never fully understand what family is, what love is, without a conscience.”

Spike laughed again. “Bloody hell, Rupert.” He put his head in his hands. “Well, my chip is certainly no conscience. I’ll drink to that.” He raised his glass and drank. “I’ll grant you it was a wake-up call. Made me start lookin’ ‘round to see what else there was to livin’ – to  _me_  – that I didn’ learn from Angelus or Dru.” He looked at Giles thoughtfully. “Do you know what happened to the other vamps they chipped?”

Giles shook his head and emptied his glass.

“They died within days. Some didn’ even last hours – couldn’t stop themselves from attackin’.” Spike looked into his whiskey, and took a sip. “That chip in my head isn’t some soul-substitute. It didn’t change me.  _Buffy_ changed me – treated me like a man ‘til I wanted to be one.  _For her._ Dawn changed me more. Needed so badly to be someone’s –  _anyone’s_ – first priority that I wanted to do it.  _For her._ Fucks me right off to hear you tryin’ to give the credit to some piece of metal lodged in my brain when it was  _them_. Beautiful, strong, smart women, who saw what I could be, if they only asked. The chip means  _nothing_.”

“You never chose to be good.”

“You sayin’ I had goodness ‘thrust upon me’?” Spike laughed, refilling both their glasses.

“You’ll never achieve goodness, either, Spike. Not without a soul.”

Spike sighed. “I’m not stupid, Rupert. I know that I’ve never been good enough for any of the women in my life. Not a one of them.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Giles said, raising his glass.

“But I also know there isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for them, no matter the cost. These last four months, lookin’ after Dawn…. Maybe you’re right, an’ I didn’t understand love or family before. But now … she’s my first priority, before  _everything_. I know every way to cook a vegetable that’ll get her eatin’ seconds, ‘cause I  _know_ she’d live off of something awful like marshmallow and pickle sandwiches if I let her. I know everythin’ she’s doin’ in school ‘cause if I don’t keep on top of it, she bloody skips and if she screws up this year, they won’t let her do summer school again an’ she’ll have to repeat.”

Giles downed his glass. “My god, you’re … you sound like you think you’re her  _father_!”

Spike refilled Giles’ glass. “Maybe I do. You lot were all so busy pretendin’ you didn’t blame her for Buffy’s death you never noticed she was blamin’ herself more’n you ever could and she desperately needed you to tell her it wasn’t her fault.  _Every day_ she needed to hear that and no one but me was sayin’ it.” Spike emptied his glass. “Did you know they sedated her to get her to stop cryin’?”

Giles shook his head slowly, and refilled Spike’s glass. “I knew she’d been to see a doctor, but I’m afraid I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“Exactly! Too busy dealin’ with your own grief to deal with hers. Dawn lost her mum an’ then her sister, an’ she couldn’t talk to  _anyone_ ‘cept us. You left, Rupes. An’ none of the rest of them were ready or willin’ to make sacrifices for her. Who did she have left?” Spike downed his drink. “And you say  _I’m_ the one with no soddin’ conscience.”

“I’m not sure I would have been any good for her if I’d stayed,” Giles said quietly, refilling both their glasses.

“Have you forgiven her yet?” Spike asked.

“I – I hope so.”

“I’m not sure you’re good enough for them, either.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked glasses and drank.

“We’re out of whiskey, Watcher.”

“I bought a bottle of Glenfiddich in the duty free.”

“I still don’ like you,” Spike said, pointing his finger.

“And I  _loathe_ you,” Giles sighed.

“Tha’s alright then.” Spike smirked as Giles got up to fetch the second bottle.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“What do you know about art?” Anya asked.

“Um… I know mom had a gallery full of it?” Buffy said, wincing.

“Right. Nothing. Why am I not surprised?”

“I’ve been busy! With … other things! Like slaying!” Buffy said, annoyed.

“I admit, your life  _was_ very distracting before you died ... and you’re still very young.” Buffy was starting to move past annoyed and into irate. “But back to money,” Anya said hurriedly. “Before Joyce got sick and started ignoring the gallery, her annual turnover was somewhere around two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Okay. Is that good?”

“It’s not amazing, but given she wasn’t trading with demons or the magical community, it’s pretty good for Sunnydale.”

“Go mom. Who knew?”

“I did; I’m sure Giles did—”

“Not what I meant,” Buffy said, holding up her hands.

“Oh,” Anya said. “Anyway, since Joyce only rented her gallery space, all her stock got packed up and put into storage when she died. I’d imagine you’re paying a lot of money in fees every month right now, so getting rid of some of the stock will make your life cheaper, even if you only go down one room-size. But more importantly,” Anya grinned, “you have assets you can exchange for money.”

“Assets are good.” Buffy was trying her best to keep her eyes from glazing over _. I wish conversations were just a little bit easier._ “Where does the no-longer-broke-Buffy come in?”

“Well, there are several options, and for each one there’s a trade-off between how much money you can make, and how long it’ll take to get it.”

Buffy took a deep breath.  _In, out, breathe._ “What’s the way that means I’m not broke anymore?”

“Well the  _quickest_ way would be to find another gallery owner with a similar set-up, and just sell everything as a job lot. It’s almost no work for you, and you might even be able to do it in a few days. Certainly less than a month.”

“Which means what in money?”

“Well, I haven’t looked it over, but I would guess somewhere in the range of ten to seventy-five thousand, depending on the pieces and how honest the buyer is.”

Buffy sat down. “Wow. That’s … a big range … but still a lot of money. Isn’t it? I can’t even imagine ten thousand dollars.”

Anya sighed despairingly. “You have no idea how much it costs you to just live every month, do you?”

Buffy shrugged. “Mom always took care of that stuff.”

“Okay. You look  _awful_ ,” Buffy flinched. “Which I guess makes sense because you were dead two days ago and you’ve mostly just been killing things ever since. And I’m still not convinced you’re back to normal – I don’t care what Willow says.”

“Was there a point, Anya?”

“Oh. Yes.” Anya grinned at her again. “I’ve decided I’m going to help you. When I close tonight, I’m going to come to your house and look at your bills, and work out what can be cut and how much money you actually need every month. Then I’m going to calculate an amount for Willow and Tara and Spike to pay you if they want to keep living in your house.”

Buffy felt her lungs expanding and oxygen flooding her system for the first time in what felt like years.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“So do any of them know you killed Glory’s human host, Rupes?” Spike asked.

“How do you know I—”

“Saw you. Heard you.”

“I have no idea if they know.” Giles rubbed his forehead. “We’ve never spoken of it.”

“It changes you. Murder.”

“Yes.” Giles refilled their glasses. “Yes it does.”

“So you admit it was murder? I  _am_ surprised.”

“I have never deluded myself that I am a good man.”

“The inference bein’ that I do?” Spike laughed. “I’m a monster. Nothin’ I can do to change that. All I can change is the future. ‘S all any of us can change.”

“‘All I can change is the future’,” Giles scoffed. “You’re impossible! You’ve constructed a romantic fairy tale out of an empty, soulless existence – your  _love_ and  _family_. You don’t know what sacrifice is.”

“I was tortured! I thought I was gonna die. That isn’t sacrifice?”

“Withstanding physical pain? The Slayer of Slayers? Pure ego,” Giles said venomously. “And dying for ‘the woman you love’ is just more of your romanticism. It was impressive, Spike, I’ll grant you that. But it wasn’t sacrifice. Your sense of self remained intact, and ultimately? All you did was buy time.”

“Tell us how you really feel, why don’t you?” Spike growled.

“Buffy believed it was a sacrifice. I suppose that’s what you wanted. Dawn too.”

“That’s not why I did it.” Spike downed his glass.

“You didn’t have your presumptions of fatherhood towards Dawn then. You had – have – a disgusting obsession with Buffy that you’ve convinced yourself is love. Do you really expect me to believe that there could have been any honour in your actions? In you?”

“I stayed, Rupert. You left. You tellin’ me your actions were more honourable than mine?”

“You don’t deny the disgusting obsession?”

“You’re talking about the bot.”

“That’s part of it.”

“That was a mistake. I knew it then, as I was doin’ it. I thought … I’d run out of hope.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “She hated me. Hated everything about me. Never saw what I was givin’ up, how I was tryin’ to change. I thought, if I can never have the real thing, an imitation might just keep me from greetin’ the sunrise.”

“Bloody romantic nonsense. Don’t you dare try to tell me the bot was the only thing keeping you from suicide.” Now Giles downed his drink, and refilled both their glasses. “And what do you mean, what you gave up? What did you ever give up?”

“How bloody thick are you? I stopped killin’ humans, didn’ I? Been baggin’ it for more’n two years now. No minions, no thralls. No poison or magic. I’ve been a vampire for over a hundred years. I’m a soddin’ Aurelian, an’ I have a fuck of a lot of power.” Spike glared at Giles. “Most of which you’ve never seen – an pro’ly never will – because I would far rather have an honest fistfight than faff about with gypsy tricks an’ bloody fright tactics.”

“My point exactly! Your sense of romance  _demands_ these choices. You don’t care about honesty, about fairness.”

“I keep my word.”

“You and Drusilla and your medieval courtliness. That’s just as bad! It was a mockery of love.”

“It bloody was not!” Spike was really angry now.

“You say you loved Drusilla for a hundred years. What happened then? You woke up one day and stopped? Surely someone who cares as much about love and family as you claim you do, you don’t simply  _stop_ loving someone. Yet you offered to kill her, for Buffy, whom you also claim to love.”

“Did you kill that doctor because it was the right thing to do? Or did you do it for  _her_. For Buffy. To save her pain, to save her from havin’ to live with his blood on her hands?”

Giles stopped. “I – I did it for her.”

“You ever gonna tell her?”

“I haven’t ever thought about it. I … didn’t need to.”

“Where’s the honour, Rupert? You murdered him because you love her and you couldn’t stand to see her hurtin’. No more no less. Same as me.”

Giles sagged in the chair. “Think what you like, Spike. Whatever your reasons, you are here, living in this house.” He laughed. “We’re stuck with you now.”

“Fuck you! You don’t get to go all fatalistic on me just because you’re losin’ the argument. All the evil done in this world by humans full to bursting with souls—”

“If you’re going to mention Hitler, I’ll just stake you right now.”

“I’d help you! Bloody weak-minded, that is.”

They clinked glasses and drank. They sat in silence for a few moments, staring into their glasses.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to control bloodlust?” Spike asked, finally.

“Some.”

“Some! he says. Because you’ve got the mark of soddin’ Eyghon? Because you murdered someone by holding your hands over his mouth? You know  _nothing_ , Watcher. The control it takes just to stand still in a room full of bleeding, dying humans….”

“Happy meals on legs?”

“If you like to put it crudely.” Spike grinned. Giles smiled back.

They clinked glasses and drank. Giles refilled their glasses.

“To be surrounded by all that, when you’re injured and hungry, and you know that just a little taste will make everything better. There’s a reason a vampire’s demon comes with bloodlust. Needs something to overcome the natural reluctance to kill. I remember the Great War. I remember how hard they had to work just to get those sods to kill each other. And they still missed as often as they could. An’ played bloody football at Christmas.” Spike sat, lost in memories for a moment.

“Romantic!” Giles wagged his finger.

“Sod off. Bloodlust is so strong you lose yourself in it. Lose everything you are or were until there’s nothing left but hunger and rage and hate for everything that isn’t you. That’s why the other vamps couldn’t live with a chip. My demon does not control me. Never has. We made our peace with each other a long time ago.”

“How is  _any_  of that an argument?”

“Because every time I have changed, it was  _always_ by choice. When Dru made me, I  _chose_ that life. I embraced it and I made it mine. And when Angelus wanted to destroy the world, I chose again, switched sides. When I couldn’t kill humans anymore, I  _chose_  to start fighting with you soddin’ white hats.  _Chose_  to throw my lot in with yours. You think Angelus ever  _wanted_ this redemption lark?”

“You realise you can’t keep complaining about being compared to him when you’re the one who keeps bringing him up?”

“You’re the one keeps saying I need a soddin’ soul! You know any other souled vamps I can talk about, I’ll gladly leave him out entirely.”

“Fair enough,” Giles grumbled.

“Stupid git tried for  _months_  to keep on bein’ the Scourge of Europe. Was only Darla kickin’ him to the curb made him stop tryin’. And  _then_ he spent the best part of a hundred years eatin’ rats and brooding, far’s I can tell. Does that strike you as dedication to the cause of good?”

“I dislike Angel intensely. While I accept that the Powers That Be desire his continued existence, I would struggle to mourn his passing.”

They stared at each other for a moment, clinked glasses, and drank.

“I chose to switch sides,” Spike insisted, refilling the glasses. “I chose.”

“ _After_ betraying us to Adam.”

“I hated you! Still do!” Spike took a long drink. “I never claimed to make the  _right_ choices. But I tried! He didn’t! Angelus was pulled kicking and screaming into this do-gooder bollocks. And don’t you dare tell me he would’ve gone along with it if he hadn’t wanted Buffy. One look at her an’ he was chompin’ at the bloody bit. And I’m  _so_  much worse’n him because I had to get to know her first?”

“In that respect, we are in total agreement. Angel is a prize-winning pillock who was never good enough for Buffy. May he get boils on his arse and suffer from impotence for the rest of his days.”

“Good. Well. Cheers.” They clinked glasses and drank.

“You understand, don’t you,” Giles added, “that I will wish the same on you if you ever, ever touch her?”

Spike groaned. “How is it that nothing I do counts for anything, but everything he does seems to count double?”

“He has a soul, a conscience. He can tell right from wrong.”

“You think I can’t?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Probably not.” Spike sighed, refilling their glasses again. “It hurts. It hurts that no matter what I do, all I ever get is suspicion.” Spike turned thoughtful. His eyes narrowed. “But not with Dawn…. None of you lot have ever seemed to have a problem with  _that_ relationship. Why’s that then?”

“She’s an ancient green ball of energy.”

“She is a fifteen year old girl who eats and sleeps and cries and loves and laughs. You gonna tell me she doesn’t have a soul either? We deserve each other or somethin’?”

“The monks said she was human, so I assume she has a soul.”

“What’s the difference, Rupes? We’re both murderers, you and I. There are things in my past that still haunt me, even if I don’t regret every kill.”

“You just said it! You don’t regret every kill!”

“If you had to do it over, would you have killed him again?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“If you’d known a week earlier, would you have done it then? In cold blood?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.  _To save her pain? Yes, a thousand times yes._

“We’re no different. You can tell yourself all you want that you serve a higher power an' I’m just a hopeless romantic. I say it’s love, real love, for the both of us. An’ love’s the only motivation that  _should_  matter worth a damn.  _Whatever_ you wanna call that part of me, it’s never changed, no matter what choices I’ve made. You need to make a choice yourself, Watcher. You tell Buffy to kick me out on my ear, she will. No contest. I’m only here on sufferance because they all know  _someone_  needs to for Dawn and they don' want it to be them. Now Buffy’s back, they’ll be howling for me to go soon enough. So. You gonna start trustin’ me?”

“I honestly don’t know. You are a very … unusual … vampire.”

“Don’t think you’ve ever gone this long without telling me to shut up before.”

“Shut up, Spike.”

Spike laughed. “And all is right with the world again.”

“You know, I think I might actually prefer you to Angel.”

“Don’t go overboard with the praise, Rupes. I’ll get all big-headed.”

“Oh sod off.”

They clinked glasses and drank.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dawn has a meltdown and Giles is hungover_

The first thing Dawn saw when she came home from school was Giles asleep and snoring softly on the sofa. He looked sweaty and tired.

“Spike?” she called out. “Why is Giles passed out in the living room? Did you break him?”

Spike laughed, coming into the hallway from the kitchen. “Not me. Was a Mr Glenfiddich.”

“Who?” Dawn asked.

“Whiskey, pet.” Spike grabbed Dawn’s hand and spun her into his chest for a hug, then spun her out again along the hallway, back towards the kitchen. “Don’ think the jet lag is helpin’, though. It’s gone 11, UK time.”

“Are you drunk?” Dawn’s eyes narrowed as Spike moved past her into the kitchen.

“’Course not!” Spike stopped in the doorway and turned to Dawn, eyes wide, the picture of innocence. “’M still vertical, aren’t I?” Then he winked.

“You are so totally drunk,” Dawn said, shoving him through the door and laughing when he stumbled.

“Jus’ happy, ‘s all.” Spike grinned, leaning back against the breakfast bar.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy felt lighter walking home from the Magic Box. Anya was going to help her with money stuff. Giles was back. Xander was going to fix the house. Spike was taking care of Dawn. Willow and Tara …  _Willow._

The enormity of what had happened to her hit back full force.  _They ripped me out. I was in heaven and they brought me back to fight demons and pay the bills_. Pain and loss battled with anger.

And  _duty_.

Because no matter how angry she was, she wouldn’t let herself hurt them. And if they knew what they’d  _really_  done, they would be very, very hurt. So all she had to do was just not tell them anything. Hide her problems as best she could, and keep all her darker thoughts to herself.  _So simple._

By the time Buffy reached Revello Drive, she had buried the happier, supported, Buffy along with her rage and grief. She was exhausted.

The kitchen windows were open beneath their blackout blinds, and Buffy could hear voices. Feeling too drained to face conversation, she slumped on the porch outside the kitchen door, trying to soak up the warmth from the late afternoon sunlight, and waited for the voices to stop.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“So … why were you getting drunk with Giles?” Dawn asked, sitting down next to him. “He’s not going to make you leave, is he?” she added, slightly panicky.

“No, pet. Not goin’ anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. We had a good long chat. Came to an understanding.”

“Good.” Dawn visibly relaxed. “Where’s Buffy?”

“Dunno. When I got up, was only us here.”

Dawn’s face fell. “I thought she would be here when I got home. I thought she would want to see me.”

“Niblet,” Spike said gently. “Jus’ because she was asleep when you left for school, an’ she’s not back the second you get home doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to see you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she’s Buffy.”

Dawn gave him a withering look. “That’s not a real answer.”

“You’re the most important thing in the world to her. She’d have to be on fire or somethin’ not to want to spend time with you.”

Dawn hadn’t yet considered that something might have  _happened_  to Buffy. “But she … she’s okay, right?” Dawn scooted her chair closer and leaned into Spike’s shoulder. “I … I only just got her back.”

“’S daylight,” Spike said, ruffling Dawn’s hair. “Your sis can take out anythin’ human with both hands tied behind her back.”

“But that posses-y thing happened in daylight. Isn’t it trying to kill her?”

“Dead, pet. Went poof last night.”

“Then why isn’t she here?” Dawn whined.

“She might’ve wanted some exercise. Or gone to get a new telly. Lots of reasons for her to leave the house. Not  _everythin’_  revolves around you.”

Dawn scowled. “The only time we’ve been alone since she came back, she tried to kill me! I think I’m justified in thinking she’d want to, you know,  _talk_  or something.”

Now Spike returned the withering look. “Yeah, ‘cause she’s  _always_  been good at awkward conversations like that _._ Your sis is still the same person she was – flaws an’ all.”

“I wish she’d just yell at me.”

“Why would she do that, Sweet?”

“I know everything’s okay if she’s yelling at me. With mom, and then Glory, she was so  _nice_  all the time. It was kind of scary. Now she’s just silent, and that’s scarier.”

“’M sure she’ll go back to yelling at you soon enough. She needs time.”

“Time for what? Is this … is it because of what Willow said? About Buffy being in a hell dimension? But she’s not like Angel was when  _he_  came back. She … she stopped being all weird and feral really quickly.”

Spike started pacing. “She’s….”  _How the hell do I say this without saying it?_ “’S like she’s grievin’.”

“Grieving for what?  _She’s_ the one who died!”

_Pro’ly_ not  _like that, then. Git._ “Look, you ‘member those times you needed to just sit quietly? Any noise hurt, an’ anyone talkin’ made you crazy?”

Dawn nodded.

So did Buffy, listening outside.

“Right now, it’s hard for her jus’ to be breathin’ the same air as other people, no matter who they are or how much she loves them.”

Buffy could feel tears rolling down her cheeks.

Dawn was quiet for a moment. Spike could hear her heartbeat speeding up. “I  _always_ knew she did it for me – to save my life – even when I was hating her for leaving.”

“She loves you.”

“But she  _shouldn’t_ have done it. I’m not even two years old! It should have been  _me_ who died. I should’ve stopped her, somehow. Whatever’s wrong with her now, it’s all my fault!” Dawn was becoming steadily more worked up, fast approaching hysteria.

“Oh my Sweet Bit,” Spike said, moving to wrap his arms around Dawn, trying to calm her.

“Buffy was  _in hell_ and, and it’s … it’s like  _I_  put her there! How can she even  _look_ at me?”

“She loves you!” Spike said. “Everything Buffy did that night, she was happy to do it because she wanted  _you_ to live!” Spike’s voice dropped. “You need to stop punishing yourself like this.”

“But  _she’s_ punishing me now! Buffy tried to kill me! Why would she do that if she didn’t  _really_ blame me? And if she wanted to see me, she’d be here!” Dawn was now shrieking, so shrill it hurt, and she was vibrating with stress and upset.

“Dawn!” Spike said, pulling away to put his hands on either side of her face and stare into her eyes. “It. Is. Not. Your. Fault. You’re the  _only_ sodding innocent in all of this!”

“It is  _so_  my fault!” she screamed, batting Spike’s hands away. “You only say I’m innocent because you’re stupid and you think it’s  _your_ fault!” Dawn finally stopped fighting him, and just cried. Spike put his arms back around her, stroking her back and whispering, “Not your fault,” over and over.

Outside, Buffy felt like she was breaking apart. She couldn’t comfort herself, let alone her sister.  _I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this._

As Dawn got quieter, Spike realised that Buffy was on the other side of the wall. Once Dawn had stopped crying and run off upstairs with a tub of ice cream, he called out, “”S  _safe_  now. She’s gone.” His voice was cold, bitter.

“You’re angry,” Buffy said from the doorway.

“Yeah,” Spike said. The muscles in his jaw were ticking. “How hard would it have been? To come in an’ tell her it wasn’t her fault?”

“Too hard.”

“You just say ‘It wasn’t your fault, Dawn.’ Five words. Done.”

“I’m not … I can’t….” Her eyes were pleading. “I can’t do this.”

“Look, I get it,” Spike sighed, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “Everythin’s awful right now. An’ I don’t want to push.” He laughed.  _Me, not pushy. Right._ “But I think you need to tell her. About heaven. Guilt’s gonna kill her otherwise.”

“I can’t ask her to keep a secret like that.”

“But you can ask me?”

“I … you’re different.”

He laughed again. “Well.”

They stared around the kitchen for a few seconds, avoiding each other’s eyes.

Buffy looked tired. There were dark circles around her eyes, and her skin was stretched too tightly over her frame. “Have you eaten today?” Spike asked, finally.

“Um. I had a pancake.”

“Let me make you something?”

Buffy crooked her lips in a semblance of a smile. “I could eat.”

Buffy sat down at the breakfast bar, and watched as Spike put together a sandwich.

She ate in tiny bites, chewing carefully, while he cleaned away the fixings. When she was done, Spike took her plate and put it in the dishwasher.

“Xander and Anya are coming over,” she said.

Spike nodded.

“Patrol with me later?”

“’Course,” he said, quietly.

Buffy laid a hand on his arm. They looked at each other. “I’m way better at fists than feelings,” she said, letting go of him and slipping out of her seat.

Spike listened to her footsteps going up the stairs, heard her pause in front of Dawn’s door, then continue to her own room.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander was apprehensive, driving up to the house. He didn’t know what to expect there anymore. Buffy was … not quite herself. Dawn was so angry – and justifiably so. Spike was … just confusing. Willow had warned him she and Tara would be home late, and that Giles would be there. Xander wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. He was still hurt that Giles had left without saying goodbye, but he was so used to the security of Giles taking charge in a crisis, he couldn’t help but feel relieved he was back.

Xander also felt guilty for leaving early last night. But  _oh,_  the sex had been worth it.

Xander got out of the truck he’d borrowed from work, and started carrying boards to the front porch. Looking through the living room “window”, he could see Giles, sleeping.

“Hello?” he called out.

“Door’s open!” Spike’s voice called from somewhere inside the house.

Xander carried the boards into the living room.

“Giles?” Xander touched his shoulder. No response. Xander prodded a bit harder. Giles muttered something unintelligible, and turned his face into the sofa.

“What’s up with Giles?” he called out, holding back on his first instinct: accusing Spike of having harmed him in some way.

Spike came to stand just outside the doorway to the living room, safely in shadow. He grinned. “Drunk as a skunk.”

Xander’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously?”

Spike nodded.

“Where are the girls?” Xander asked.

“Upstairs,” Spike said. “Leave you to it, shall I?” He went back towards the kitchen. Xander heard him going down into the basement.

Xander looked over at Giles. There was drool. He sniggered.  _This is just too much fun_

Giles slept through Xander bringing in the stepladder and the rest of his tools, his efforts in re-plastering, even moving the sofa away from the window while Giles was still in it. Nothing made an impact on his snoring.

The drilling, however,  _penetrated_.

"Please, please stop that horrible noise," Giles begged weakly.

Xander turned, smiling. "Hey, Giles! Welcome back! Just another couple of holes – almost done."

"Could you please stop shouting? My head is ... I have a headache."

"You really were passed out drunk, weren't you?"

"It's jet lag," Giles lied coldly.

Xander laughed. "Yeah, right. Whatever you say, G-man."

"Please don't call me that."

"Gotta do the other side now." Just before recommencing drilling, he said, "Consider this payback for leaving us without saying goodbye."

Giles groaned and put his hands over his ears. He considered getting up, but decided the room was still spinning too much to risk leaving the sofa. He was unspeakably relieved when the drilling stopped.

Xander noticed his relief, and immediately – almost gleefully – said, “Oh I’m not done yet! I still need to nail all these boards into the wall to cover the broken window!" Xander picked up his hammer and waved it at Giles.

_I will never touch a drop of whiskey ever again._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Halfway through the boarding of the window, Giles managed to drag himself away from the noise and into the kitchen, where he was making tea and debating the merits of toast.

The sound of the kettle drew Spike back upstairs. “You feeling as awful as you look?” he asked.

“Worse,” Giles admitted. “I should probably go try to find a hotel for the night. I don’t think I’ll be good for anything much until I’ve slept in a bed for a few hours.”

“Can take mine downstairs, if you like,” Spike said diffidently. “’S not like I use it at night, anyway. I’ll just stay up here and watch tel— oh bollocks.” Spike slouched back against the counter. “We don’t even have a soddin’ telly anymore.”

“Thank you,” Giles said, surprised both by the offer and by his intention to accept it. “I … I assume there is bedding somewhere for me to use?”

“Yeah. Hang on, I’ll go down and sort it out.” He jerked his head towards Giles’ tea preparations. “Milk’n four sugars, yeah?” He opened the door to the basement and went back down.

Kettle boiled, Giles made two cups of tea, marvelling at the situation in which he found himself.  _Wonders really never will cease around here._

A particularly loud bang from the living room sent a shudder through his body. Thankfully, it appeared to be the last one.

“Hello?” Anya called out from the hallway.

There was a long silence, while Giles presumed Xander and Anya were saying hello to one another. The longer it went on, the more grateful he was he couldn’t see it.

A slightly breathless Anya finally came into the kitchen, dragging Xander behind her.

“Giles! It’s so good to see you!” she flung herself at him, hugging him tightly. Pulling back and looking him balefully in the eye, she added, “You know you can’t have the shop back, right? You signed papers.”

“Hello, Anya. Yes, I know,” Giles said gently. “The shop is yours to run as you see fit.”

“Good,” she said, looking relieved.

Spike appeared in the basement doorway. “Bed’s ready for you, whenever you want it.”

“Thank you,” Giles said. He stepped back from Anya, clutching his tea. “I’m afraid I’m not very good company at the moment.” He looked down at his watch. “I’m very jet lagged.”

Xander covered a laugh by coughing.

Giles stared at Xander until he stopped spluttering. “I am going to go to bed now. I expect I’ll see you all tomorrow. Good night.” With as much dignity as he could muster, Giles took his tea and his suitcase down into the basement.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Xander said, “I vote we use  ‘jet lagged’ as code for ‘drunk’ from now on.”

“Was he drunk?” Anya asked. “I  _thought_ he looked ill.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

An hour later, Xander had gone home, and Anya was sitting at the dining room table, becoming increasingly alarmed at the state of the house finances. There were almost as many reminders for missed bills as there were bills. It looked like no one was even opening the mail until the envelopes turned red. With all the late charges and extra interest payments.... They were lucky they hadn't been cut off.

Spike walked past the doorway.

"Spike!" Anya hissed. He came towards her. "You live here, what's with the non-payment of bills?"

“Dunno," he said, shrugging. “Don't think I've looked at a bill since I was human. Witches do all that.”

"Not enough of it,” Anya said, frowning. “I  _know_ you have money. Why aren't you contributing?" Anya added, smacking him on the arm.

"Oi!” he said, rubbing his arm. “I give Dawn money."

"Oh," Anya said, thawing slightly. "How much?"

"Ten or twenty a week? More if she asks for it."

"That’s not enough to offset your freeloading!" Anya hit him again. “I promised Buffy I would help her, and part of that is making sure  _you_  start paying your way.”

“I would’ve before, if anyone’d ever bothered to ask,” Spike grumbled.

“Well. I’m asking you now. Six hundred a month. And I think you should replace the television.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Yes, mum.”

“Don’t call me that!” Anya said, horrified. “When are Willow and Tara due back?”

“’S Thursday, so late. Ten-ish, maybe?”

“I’m assuming Buffy is too crazy to handle conversation, since I haven’t seen her yet. And I want sex  _now_ , so I’m not going to wait two hours for Willow and Tara to come home.”

Spike’s eyes widened slightly at the thought of Anya waiting two hours for a threesome with Willow and Tara.

“So can you please tell them that rent is six hundred a month – each – and that they really need to stop waiting so long to pay the bills?”

“It will be my very great pleasure, pet.” Spike grinned evilly.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike knocked on Buffy’s door at ten. “You still want to patrol, Love?”

Buffy opened the door. “I’ve been dying to kill something all night.”

As they set off towards the cemeteries, Spike felt a tingle at the back of his neck. Someone was following them.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everyone hates Willow, part 1_

Willow leaned into Tara as they walked home from the last class of the day. “I’m so tired,” she said, nuzzling Tara’s neck.

Tara smiled. “Not really surprising, Sweetie.” She rubbed her cheek against Willow’s head, and put her arm around her waist. “You’ve expended a lot of magical energy the last couple of days.”

“Ummm,” Willow said. She’d felt tingly and … more  _powerful_ … ever since the resurrection spell. Her magical reserves hadn’t even come close to being depleted. “Not so much with the magically tired. Just really  _physically_ tired.”

“Oh,” Tara said, surprised, and a little bit worried. “Well, unconscious doesn’t really count as sleep, so that makes sense too.” Tara squeezed her waist.

Willow sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Tara asked.

“Me? Nothing. No worries at all.” Willow laughed nervously.

Tara stopped walking and raised her eyebrows. “Tell me?”

Willow slumped under Tara’s gaze. “Nothing turned out the way I thought it would.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Don’t you think everyone should be acting … happier?” Willow asked in a small voice. “I mean, everything that happened, I get that it’s gotta be intense. But … I was kinda expecting a party or something. A celebration. If the spell really  _did_ go right, shouldn’t Buffy be happy we rescued her?”

“It’s been kinda traumatic for Buffy. And Dawn. I don’t think they’re ready for celebrations yet.”

“Yeah,” Willow squirmed.

“Were you thinking the party would be for you? Everyone saying thanks? Being grateful?”

Willow cringed. “Am I a terrible person if I say yes?”

Tara smiled. “Will, this is me. I’m never gonna think you’re a terrible person for telling me how you feel. In this space” Tara drew a circle around them with her fingertip, “you’re totally safe. Because no matter what, I love you.”

Willow smiled gratefully at her girlfriend. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay to be disappointed they’re not happier. So long as you accept and respect their feelings, too.”

“I think I can do that,” Willow said.

They clasped hands and carried on walking.

When Spike heard the key in the lock, he considered passing on Anya’s message immediately. But he was feeling off balance and edgy, and he decided he’d rather get some killing in before he tried any more conversations. As they came through the door, he jumped up from the sofa and ran upstairs, completely ignoring their presence.

Buoyed by her conversation with Tara, Willow was okay with that.

But it hurt when he and Buffy came downstairs – so obviously  _together_  – a few seconds later. Spike was still blanking them, and Buffy just said, “’Night, Will,” as they walked out the door.

_It’s not fair._ I  _brought her back. Me._ I _should be going out with her now, not him._

Tara watched Willow’s face crumple. Her heart ached. She knew how devastated Willow had been by Buffy’s death, and how much she’d hitched to the star of bringing her back.

“C’mon Sweetie. Let’s have bed and cuddles.”

Willow forced her lips into a smile and let herself be led up to bed.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

There was very little stirring on patrol. After nearly an hour, they’d only found two lone vamps rising – no sign of sires, even. Buffy had a sudden spike of panic as they approached the first disturbed grave, but she overcame it relatively quickly. Her kills were quick and clean.

They still hadn’t exchanged a word since they left the house. Waiting for a third fledge – a particularly inept digger – Buffy turned to where Spike was standing, several feet away, “You’re not usually this quiet.”

“Not usually, no.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said uncertainly, unsure how to deal with a Spike who wasn’t talking.

“Said I would,” he said curtly. Then, jerking his chin towards the waving arm now visible above ground, “Think he’s finally figured it out.”

Buffy yanked until a man’s head and torso cleared the dirt. “What idiot thought  _you_  would make a good vampire?” she asked, plunging in the stake.

“No!” screamed a woman’s voice. Spike and Buffy turned. A female vamp was running towards them. “You killed Simon, you bitch!”

“ _This_ idiot, clearly!” Buffy said brightly, shooting out her fist and letting the vampire run into it.

She went straight down, unconscious. Buffy stood over her, watching for a few seconds, before staking her. “What does a girl have to do to get a good fight around here?” Buffy wailed in disappointment.

Spike shrugged and lit a cigarette.

Buffy watched him smoke most of it in silence, finally half-shouting in frustration, “If you’re just going to be all freaky and not-talking, I’d rather patrol alone!”

Spike shut his eyes as he exhaled. “An’ if your memory goes walkabout again?”

“Oh,” Buffy said in a small voice. She sat down on a gravestone.

“Yeah, ‘oh’.” Spike flung his cigarette down and ground it out viciously.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Lying in the long grass, well downwind, he was completely hidden. He thought the vampire suspected something, but that was only to be expected. He knew his limitations hiding from demons.

_The Slayer died. I saw her buried._

_This changes_ everything _._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Why?” she asked, softly.

“Why what?”

“You’re mad at me, but you’re still here.”

“I told you—”

“You’re feet away. You could have watched from a distance.” She paused. “Like you used to.”

“You knew ‘bout that?” Spike was surprised. Surely if she’d noticed she would have said something. Or hit him, it being Buffy.

“Yeah. I … appreciated the back-up.” She shrugged. “When you weren’t being an asshole or stealing my kills.” Buffy stared across at him, mock-glaring.

“Well, well.” Spike pulled out his lighter and flicked it alight, stared at the flame, then flicked it shut. Still staring at his hands, he said, “I saved you. Not when it counted, of course, but … after that. Every night after that. I saw it all again, and I did something different. Faster or more clever, you know? Dozens of times, lots of different ways…. Every night, I saved you.” He looked up, straight at her. “I won’t watch from a distance. Not again.” He looked back down at his hands, and brought a flame to light. “Bein’ mad? ‘S temporary. I’ll get over it. Losin’ you?” His eyes met hers again, and he snapped the lighter shut.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

When they got home, Buffy took him by the hand and led him upstairs and into her bedroom. She pushed him gently into the chair by the bed and, picking up her pyjamas, left for the bathroom.

Spike took off his boots, not sure what to expect.

When she returned, she sat on the bed, her knees a whisper away from his. “I don’t know what this is,” she said, looking up at him. “But … if you don’t mind staying….”

“I don’t mind,” Spike said, slightly hoarsely.

Buffy slid under the covers, eyes still locked with his. She bit her lip. He could hear her heart speeding up. She lifted the corner of her duvet.

“Keep the nightmares away?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles was awake by five. His mouth tasted like something furry had died in it, but the worst of the headache was gone. He lay in Spike’s surprisingly comfortable bed and dozed, hoping to go back to sleep, until he heard people walking around and the faint rumble of conversation overhead.

He sat up, gingerly, and climbed the stairs to the kitchen. He felt grotty and wished he’d had the energy to change into pyjamas before going to bed last night.

“Morning, Giles,” Dawn said, when he came through the basement door. Her face was still showing traces of puffiness, and there were circles under her eyes. “How’s your head?”

“Fine, thank you, Dawn,” Giles said.  _Definitely never drinking again._ “Are you … are you alright?”

Dawn nodded, going back to her cereal.

Spike downed the last mouthful of his mug of blood and flipped the kettle on. “I usually go to bed ‘bout now, if you don’t mind vacatin’.”

“Of course,” Giles murmured. He turned to go back downstairs.

By the time the kettle had boiled, Giles was back upstairs with his suitcase.

“I, uh, wasn’t sure whether to strip the bed?”

“You back for good now?”

“I … I hadn’t really planned beyond getting a flight here.”

“Better here than some hotel. We can keep swapping off ‘til you sort yourself out.”

“Thank you.”

Spike ran his hand over the top of Dawn’s head. “You know where I am if you need me.”

She nodded again.

“Right then, I’m off.”

Xander arrived as the basement door was closing.

“Hey, Giles! Didn’t expect to see you up so bright and early. How’s your head?”

“Fine, thank you, Xander,” Giles sighed.

“You ready to go, Dawnie?”

Dawn put her bowl in the sink and grabbed her backpack. “Yup.” They left.

Giles had showered and changed and was sitting at the breakfast bar drinking his second cup of tea when Willow padded into the kitchen in her pyjamas.

“Hey Giles,” she said, smiling and blinking a bit sleepily. “Were you staying here last night? I didn’t see you when we came in….”

“I was in the basement,” he said.

Willow frowned. “In Spike’s bed?”

Giles nodded.

“Oh.” She filled the coffee pot up with water and poured it into the machine. “Guess that kinda works since he doesn’t sleep at night.” She put in the coffee and started the machine, then turned back to Giles. “You have a good talk with Buffy yesterday?”

“Yes,” he said.

Willow was faltering a little against Giles’ lack of enthusiasm, but she decided to push through. Smile widening encouragingly, she said, “Isn't it awesome she’s back?”

“Mmm. Tell me about the spell you performed.”

“Okay,” Willow said eagerly.  _Finally, someone who can appreciate what I did!_  “First of all – so scary. Like, the Blair Witch would have had to watch like this,” she covered her eyes, “and there were all these weird noises, and these scarab beetles came out of my mouth and they, like, attached themselves to my face, and then there was all this energy crackling and then this pack of demons interrupted but I totally kept it together and the next thing you know….” Willow grinned expectantly, her hands in a “ta-da!” pose, “Buffy.”

“You're a very stupid girl,” Giles said quietly.

Willow’s face fell. “What? But Giles….”

“Do you have any idea what you've done? The  _lines_ you've crossed?”

“If you’re talking about what happened with Dawn—”

“What did you do to Dawn?” He sounded horrified.

“Oh. Um.” Willow quavered. “I, well there was no one here to look after her, so, uh….” Willow sped up, “I put her into a trance so she could come with us and be part of the circle for the spell.”

“How could you?” he asked, incredulous. “You were supposed to be her guardian, her protector.” Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Spike said no one was putting her needs first … I didn’t believe him.”

Willow’s gut clenched at “Spike said”.

“Of everyone here,” Giles continued coldly, “ _you_ were the one I trusted most. Now I find you’re not the person I thought you were.”

“Why are you being like this?” Willow said, wanting to cry. “I thought you'd be … impressed.”  _I thought you’d be_ proud  _of me._

“Oh, don’t worry! You’ve made quite the impression. And you don’t even realise what you've done!”

“I brought her back!”

“At incredible risk! Resurrection spells are unbelievably dangerous.”

“What risk? Making her deader?”

“Killing us all. Unleashing a hell on Earth. Shall I go on?”

“No! Giles, I did what I had to do. I did what nobody else could do.”

“Oh, there are others in the world who can do what you did. You just don't want to meet them.”

“Okay, probably not – but they're bad guys. I am not a bad guy. I brought Buffy back! I think the word you should be looking for is ‘congratulations’!”

“Having Buffy back in the world makes me feel indescribably wonderful – but I wouldn't congratulate you if you jumped off a cliff and happened to survive.”

“That's not what I did, Giles!”

“You were  _lucky_.”

“I wasn't lucky. I was  _amazing_! How would you know anyway? You weren't even there.”

“If I had been I'd have bloody well stopped you!” he yelled. “The magicks you channelled are more primal and ferocious than you can hope to understand, and you're lucky to be alive, you rank, arrogant amateur!”

Willow reeled back as if she’d been slapped. Her hurt and disappointment turned to anger. “You're right,” she said, raising her voice. “The magicks I used are incredibly powerful.  _I'm_ incredibly powerful!” She paused. “So maybe it's not such a good idea for you to piss me off.”

Willow and Giles just stared at each other for a few seconds, both feeling like they were talking to a person they’d never met before.

They jumped when the basement door opened. “Either keep it down or fight somewhere else, would you? ‘M tryin’ to sleep,” Spike said blearily. He turned to Willow, “Oh, Anya says you an’ Glinda are payin’ six hundred a month in rent to Buffy from now on, an’ you’re to stop bein’ so bloody late every time you pay a bill.”

Giles stared at Willow in surprise. “You mean to tell me you  _haven’t_ been contributing all this time?”

Willow opened and closed her mouth a few times. “I, we, well….”

“”M goin’ back to bed,” Spike grumbled, and went back downstairs. He had thought he’d have something more like a showdown with Willow, but he was too tired right now to bother, and he reckoned telling her immediately after a dressing down from Giles was just as good, if not better.  _Serves her bloody right, the bitch._

“C'mon, Giles,” Willow said finally. “I don't want to fight. Let's not, okay? I'll think about what you said, and you ... you try to be happy Buffy's back.”

Giles looked at her for a moment before replying. “We still have no idea where she was or what happened to her. And I'm far from convinced she's come out of all this undamaged.”

Willow made up two mugs of coffee as quickly as she could and fled upstairs to Tara and safety. She felt battered and bruised and in desperate need of comfort.

“Baby?” Willow said softly, opening their bedroom door. “I have coffee.”

“Mmmmm, coffee,” Tara murmured.

Willow set the mugs down on the bedside table and crawled into bed, wrapping herself in the warmth of Tara’s arms, burrowing to find as many points of contact as she could.

“Something wrong, Sweetie?” Tara asked sleepily.

“Giles yelled at me,” Willow said softly.

“You can’t be surprised,” Tara mumbled, eyes still shut.

Willow scrambled to sit up, shocked. “Of course I was surprised!”

“Willow,” Tara said carefully, coming up to rest on her elbow and forcing her eyes open. “We decided not to tell Mr Giles we were doing it because we didn’t think he’d approve. Why would you expect him to now?”

“Because she’s back now! And she’s fine … well, mostly. And I thought he’d be proud of me.”

“Oh, Sweetie. That was never going to happen.” Tara tried to get Willow to lie down again, but she jerked away from her.

“Are you taking his side?” Willow asked, horrified and hurt.

“Willow, this isn’t about sides!” Tara said, finally giving up on snuggling and sitting up. “I’m  _always_ on your side. I love you. It’s about acknowledging that we did something … dangerous. We took a really big risk. And no matter how wonderful it is to have Buffy back, it’s going to take time to sort out what all the repercussions are.” Tara sighed. “And honestly? I’m not sure things with Dawn will ever really be okay again.”

“I’m sorry!” Willow wailed. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t leave her there! That I couldn’t go through every day knowing that Buffy was in some horrible hell dimension.”

“I know you only wanted to help Buffy. I’m sure Mr Giles knows that too.”

“He’s sure not acting like he does,” Willow grumbled.

“You can’t control how other people feel, Willow.”

“I know that! But it wasn’t just Giles.”

Tara stroked Willow’s arm. “What else?”

“ _Spike_ ,” Willow almost spat the name, “said that Anya wants us to start paying rent.”

“That’s a really good idea,” Tara said, smiling. “I mean, when we first moved in, it was only supposed to be temporary, so we never really talked about rent, but now….  Plus I’m sure it’ll help with Buffy’s money problems.”

Willow was stunned. “Okay, fine, if  _Buffy_ asked. But …  _Anya_? And  _Spike_? What business is it of theirs whether we pay rent or not?”

Tara crinkled up her face in confusion. “What’s your problem, Willow? We’ve paid rent before, and it’ll help Buffy.”

“It’s … don’t you find it weird that Spike and Anya know  _anything_ about  _our_ bills!”

“Well Spike lives here. And maybe Buffy asked Anya for help? We did kind of tell her there were money troubles and then leave yesterday.”

“Why didn’t she ask  _me_?” Willow said finally, frustrated.

Tara finally got it. “Oh Willow,” Tara said, putting her arms around her girlfriend.

“I offered to stay, yesterday. But Buffy said she was fine, so I didn’t. But then she obviously went and talked to  _Anya_ about something  _I’ve_ been handling just fine for months! And last night when we came home, Buffy just left! With  _Spike_! She … “ Willow started crying. “I just miss my best friend so much! And she doesn’t want to talk to me!”

Tara held Willow while she cried, desperately worried that the gap between reality and Willow’s expectations was getting uncomfortably wide.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everyone hates Willow, part 2_

“Giles!” Anya said, surprised. “What are you doing here? I thought you would be busy being hung over this morning.”

Giles sighed.  _Never again._ “Thank you for your concern, Anya, but I really am  _fine_.” He glared at her until she looked away. “I wanted to examine the spell that Willow performed. I presume she found it in one of the books here?”

“Oh,” Anya said. “Are you trying to find a way to cure the crazy?”

“The … crazy?”

“Well…. Buffy threw Willow across the room and then she tried to kill Dawn. That seems pretty crazy to me. Plus I’m not convinced Willow did the spell right.”

Giles sighed again. “Please tell me everything you know about how you brought Buffy back?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

When Buffy woke up, it was almost noon and the house was completely silent.

She felt both lethargic and fidgety, like her body couldn’t decide whether it needed to sleep for a week or go out and kill something.

 _Hungry_.

Still in her pyjamas, she went downstairs. The fridge didn’t reveal any secrets, no matter how long she stared. She ate a pot of yoghurt. That felt … familiar.

She wandered around the downstairs, touching things, trying to work out what had genuinely changed while she was dead, and what she just couldn’t remember. It was depressing.

Then she remembered she had a punching bag in the basement.

She looked down at her still-healing hands.  _Need tape_.

Hands taped, Buffy opened the basement door and started down the stairs.

_Yup. Punching bag’s still here._

Buffy froze.

_Also … sleeping vampire._

She hadn’t quite thought through all of the implications of Spike living in the basement. In particular, that he would – as a matter of course – be  _there_ , sleeping, in the middle of the day. He was in a single bed she didn’t recognise, twisted around a collection of covers and pillows.

She heard him draw in a deep breath, and then he moved.

Naked  _sleeping vampire._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander was more than a little shocked to see Willow. She’d never shown up at the site before. But there she was, at the gate.

“Hey, Xand!” She grinned, holding up a large paper bag. “I brought lunch!”

“Why’d you do that, Will?” Xander smiled nervously. “Has something horrible happened that you expect me to need comforting about? Because if it has, I’d really rather wait until the working day is over before I find out what it is…. Then at least I can drown my sorrows in beer.”

“No, silly!” Willow said. “I just … I wanted to talk to you.”

“Ookay.” Xander turned to one of the guys milling around. “Hey, Richard, I’m gonna take off for a bit. Call me if you need me for anything?” Richard nodded, and Xander turned back to Willow. “Okay, Wills. I’m all yours ... for like half an hour.” He smiled sheepishly. “Then I really do need to get back.”

Willow smiled in agreement. A few minutes later, they were sitting on the back of his truck, munching on the sandwiches she’d brought.

“So,” Xander said, finally. “What’s such a big deal I rate surprise feast-age?”

Willow looked at him sideways. “Do you think it’s … okay … now that Buffy’s back, for Spike to keep living in the house?”

Xander took a deep breath. Brow furrowed, he said, “I think it’s what’s best for Dawn.”

Willow almost dropped her sandwich. “Wha-huh?”

“Look, Will, I  _hate_  Spike. I’ve lived with the guy, and honestly? I don’t know how you’ve lasted as long as you have.”

“Me neither!” Willow agreed.

“But Dawn…. We haven’t been very good at taking care of her. I mean, at first we were all grieving for Buffy and … I know I blamed her. For Buffy dying, I mean. I feel awful about it now, but….” Xander stared down at his feet. “It can’t have been easy for her to deal with. Spike – god knows why or how he’s ended up being the one – but … I really think he’s why she … got better.”

Willow was looking increasingly horrified.  _This is so not how I expected this conversation to go._

Seeing Willow’s expression, Xander laughed nervously. “It doesn’t make any sense, I know.” He shrugged. “I mean, soulless vampire, tried to kill us lots of times! Totally evil. But now, with that whole sleepwalking thing? It  _terrifies_ me that we did that. I didn’t think we were like that, you know? I mean, it was … it was  _wrong_. Maybe even evil. And I know I’m the one who keeps saying that what Spike did before – with Angel – didn’t really happen, but … it’s like Spike’s  _always_   _been there_ for Dawn. And lately, we … we’ve hurt her more than he has.”

“But—” Willow felt like her whole world was being ripped away from her.

“Spike makes her  _grin_. I can’t go along with something that’ll make that light go out of her again. I just can’t do it.” Xander felt a wave of guilt pass over him. “I think we’ve betrayed her badly enough already. ”

“But what about Buffy?” Willow asked, grasping for something to get back to surer footing.

Xander remembered how he’d backed away from Buffy in her bedroom, afraid of what she might do to him.  _That cut on Dawn’s neck…._ “Buffy’s … I don’t think she’ll hurt her again.”  _I hope she won’t._

“No! I meant, what about Buffy with Spike in the house, with his whole disgusting crush thing.”

Xander laughed. “Oh come on, Will. He’s chipped! It’s not like he can hurt her. If I cared, I’d worry about what  _she’d_ do to  _him_.”

“He might not be able to hurt her  _physically_ ….” Willow muttered.

“What other way is there for him to hurt her?” Xander asked, confused. He stared at Willow for a few seconds. “What is this  _really_ about? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Willow squirmed. “Spike said that Anya said we should start paying rent.”

“You’re worried about Spike because Anya asked him to pass on a message you didn’t like?” Xander’s tone was icy.

“Um, maybe?” Willow wavered, not quite sure why Xander had gone cold on her. “Why should  _he_  get involved in bills and stuff?”

Xander’s pressed his lips together. “Spike  _isn’t_ ,” he ground out. “You mean why should  _Anya_  get involved.”

“No!” Willow realised her mistake.

Xander’s anger gave way to disappointment. “I thought you were past this, Will. Buffy asked Anya to help with the money stuff. It made Anya feel like she really mattered, beyond just being my …”  _Fiancée._  “Girlfriend.”

“I am! I love Anya! Well, not love-love, because that’s only for Tara, but, platonic-love, totally! Go Anya with the helping.” Willow made a cheering motion with her fists.

“Good,” Xander said firmly. “I’m glad to hear it. And I’m sure Anya will be glad to hear it, too, when you tell her that yourself the next time you see her.”

 _He’s choosing Anya over me. He chose_ Spike _over me. What happened to my Xander?_

“So, we’re all good?” Xander asked.

“Yeah,” Willow said, dazed. “Sure.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Buffy?” Spike mumbled. He was still mostly asleep, not sure whether her scent was real, or something he was dreaming.

Buffy ran back upstairs.

_Naked Spike._

She’d managed not to think about him  _like that_ while they’d been … sleeping … together. But, suddenly faced with his body, all spread out in front of her like some … feast … just ready for her to dive in and taste. She could feel her nipples going hard, her innermost muscles flexing in anticipation.

Overwhelmed by her body’s response, her mind was stuttering.  _What’s wrong with me?_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“And then she just sort of popped up in the kitchen – actually, that part was a little spooky – and she said she was ‘okay’. But I don’t see how she could have been. I really don’t.”

“Right. Did she say anything about  _where_ she was?”

Anya thought about it. “Just that time passed more slowly, and that she couldn’t leave.”

“That could mean anything. I was hoping….”

“You think Willow was wrong, don’t you? About Buffy being in a hell dimension?”

Giles opened his mouth to reply, but the bell jangled over the door before he had the chance.

“Good afternoon!” Anya chirped brightly. “How can I best encourage you to spend your money today?”

The man paused in the doorway. “Good afternoon,” he said carefully. Anya thought he sounded Eastern European. “Do you always greet your customers with such … bluntness?”

Anya grinned. “Yes. Can I help you find something?”

“I had heard that you sold objects … of an unusual nature?”

Giles looked up from his notebook. The man didn’t look like their usual sort of client. He carried himself with the easy grace that spoke of years of physical training. His hair was not quite a brush cut, but close. His skin was lined, weathered, but Giles suspected he wasn’t much over forty.  _You’re some kind of soldier._

Getting up from the table, Giles walked towards the man. “We  _are_  a magic shop. What sort of object did you have in mind?”

The man cocked his head to one side, considering.  _The Watcher has returned. The Slayer is alive. Do I tell them now?_

The silence was rapidly becoming awkward.

He smiled disarmingly.  _Not yet. Not yet._  “A gift, for a lady friend. Soon it is her birthday, and I had hoped to find something … charming for her.”

With Anya’s encouragement, the man bought a simple – but prohibitively expensive – pendant that was charmed to make its wearer a little bit luckier.

Giles felt there was something not quite right about him, but Anya refused to hear a bad word about anyone who bought expensive jewellery in cash. She glowed as she counted and re-counted the fat wad of bills she’d just received.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara was outside, waiting, when Dawn left school.

“Tara?” Dawn said uncertainly.

Tara waved tentatively.

“What are you doing here? This is kinda stalker-y….”

“Sorry. I just w-w-wanted to talk to you, and I thought it might be … easier … doing it somewhere other than at home. I was thinking we c-c-could go for ice cream maybe?”

Dawn narrowed her eyes, and a muscle in her jaw started ticking. “Is this like the Tara version of guilt-cookies?”

“No!” Tara said hurriedly. “I just thought … I didn’t think you liked c-coffee. And you’re still too young for b-beer.” Tara shrugged.

“Oh,” Dawn said, calming down. “Okay, I guess.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Good god, that’s a lot of shake,” Tara said, awed.

Dawn gave a particularly loud slurp.

“I mean, I know that was kinda the point, but…. Good god that’s a lot of shake.”

“Why isn’t Willow here?” Dawn asked.

 _That was blunt._ “Willow has classes all afternoon,” Tara said carefully.

“Because, it  _was_  her spell, wasn’t it? The rest of you just … went along with it.” Dawn’s eyes narrowed. “Like peer pressure.”

Tara smiled weakly. “It was Willow’s spell. But we all went along with it, so it’s all of our responsibility.”  _All our fault._

Dawn nodded and stirred her shake. In a very small voice, she asked, “That was the first time, right?” In a flash, her confident ‘wronged party’ stance had collapsed and she just looked like a frightened little girl. “I mean, it’s not like it’s some regular thing you do every time Spike goes out at night…. Is it?”

“Oh, Dawnie, no,” Tara said, reaching out towards her. Dawn pulled back sharply. Tara flinched, and leaned back in her chair to give Dawn space. “I think we were so nervous and scared about bringing Buffy back that we kind of … shut off our brains for a while. Willow should never have suggested it, and I should never have gone along with it. And we’re both so sorry.”

Dawn nodded into her shake. “It scares me that you guys could do that,” she said. “I trusted you, all of you. You were practically all I had. And you … you made me into some kind of  _zombie_.” She paused, then looked up at Tara with very wide eyes. “Did you think I wouldn’t  _want_  to help bring Buffy back?”

“No, not at all. We thought … we didn’t want to get your hopes up, in case it didn’t work. It was so hard for you, with Joyce….”

“I guess I can understand that. But … why didn’t you just leave me at home?”

“We didn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Dawn snorted. “That was  _monumentally_  stupid.”

“Yeah,” Tara agreed ruefully. “It was.”

Dawn slurped at her shake some more.

“Um …” Tara started. “Is there anything I –Willow –  _we_ can do to make things easier? I mean, I want you to always feel safe in your own home.”

Dawn looked up, startled. “Spike wanted to kick you and Willow out.”

“Is that how you feel, too? Because you know, if it is, that’s okay. You have every right to feel that way.”

“The bar … helps,” Dawn said thoughtfully. “I can  _see_ as soon as I wake up that nothing happened while I was asleep. You know?”

Tara nodded. “I’m glad.”  _I so wish she didn’t need that._

“I don’t want Spike to leave on the weekends anymore,” Dawn blurted out.

“Okay,” Tara said calmly. She’d expected that.

Dawn was taken aback. She’d imagined  _way_ more resistance.

“Are you sure you’re … okay with Willow and I living with you?”

Dawn stopped and really thought about it. The idea of them leaving had terrified her when Spike had first mentioned it, but she hadn’t been quite sure why, then. “I think I feel like, if you guys move out, then that’s the end. I mean … ‘cause really, you’re  _Buffy’s_  friends. Not mine. And … we only ever spent time together because Buffy was dead. Now she’s back … if you guys aren’t living in the house anymore … it’s like we’ll never get the chance to resolve anything, because we’ll just drift, and it’ll always be like  _this_. Me not knowing if I trust you, and you not knowing if I’ve forgiven you.”

“Oh Dawn.” Tara’s heart broke a little – she thought Dawn was probably right, but it was such a bleak outlook.  _Everyone who hasn’t abandoned you belongs to Buffy first._ “You’re my friend, too.”

Dawn gave her a withering look. “That’s just a comforting lie.”

“Well….” Tara trailed off as she really thought about it.  _Do I actually like spending time with Dawn?_  “You can be kinda whiny sometimes.”

Dawn pulled back, shocked.

Tara giggled at the expression on her face. “And I  _really_  wish you wouldn’t shriek so much, ‘cause it hurts my ears.”

Dawn just stared at her.

“But you have a great sense of humour. Dry. And you’re smart. You have an interesting take on things. So … yeah. I  _do_ like hanging out with you. And I’d like to think we’d maybe have been friends anyway, even without Willow and Buffy.” As Tara was saying it, she realised it was true.

The first hints of a real smile started twitching across Dawn’s lips. She slurped on her shake. This was a beginning of something.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow found Buffy sitting on the sofa, staring at the spot in the wall where the TV used to be, when she came home.

“Hey, Buffy,” Willow said, happy to find her alone for once.

Slowly, as if she was moving underwater, Buffy blinked a few times then looked up at Willow. “Hey,” she said.

Willow smiled and sat down on the sofa. “Having a pyjama day, huh?”

Buffy looked down at herself, and snapped out of her trance. “Oh!” she cried, embarrassed as she realised she hadn’t even brushed her teeth. She jumped up from the sofa, and ran upstairs without another word.

Willow was stung. The first time she’d had a chance to spend some time with Buffy alone, and she just ran!

Tara and Dawn came through the door, laughing. They stopped, almost guiltily, when they saw Willow sitting alone in the living room.

“Hey, Will,” Tara said, smiling.

“Hey,” Willow said. “So what’ve you guys been doing?”

Dawn glared. “Talking.” She turned to Tara. “I’m gonna go tell Spike.” She ran off towards the basement.

“Tell Spike what, Baby?” Willow asked.

“Dawn wants him to start staying here on weekends. It makes sense.”

Willow opened and closed her mouth a few times.

“I’m gonna make some tea. You want anything?” Tara smiled again.

“No. Thanks,” Willow said, thinking furiously.

 _Somehow, everything’s gone Wrong. There must be_ something  _I can change so that it’s Right again._

Willow ran up to her and Tara’s room and started looking through every spell book they had.

She knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted Dawn to forgive her and like her again, and for Buffy to see that the person she  _really_ needed by her side was her best friend of five years. She felt sure that if those two things only happened, then Tara and Xander and Giles would  _finally understand_ that everything she did was to protect her friends – no,  _family_  – and they would be proud and happy again. And Anya and Spike would fade into the background, where they belonged.

What she couldn’t quite figure out was the  _how_. She found several forgetting spells that looked promising, but when she tried to work out the logistics of who would need to forget what for her desired results, she realised that forgetting was not the right tool for the job.

For a long time, she considered working some kind of glamour on herself, so that everyone would just appreciate her that little bit more. She even started writing out a list of ingredients. But ultimately, it just felt too squicky to make the magical change about  _her_  – Jonathan’s augmentation spell was too recent a memory. And this was all about helping Buffy, after all.

Then all of a sudden, she had an idea.

Willow giggled, then full-out belly laughed the more she thought about it.

_It’s perfect._

It wasn’t even magical.

 _Buffy loves him. Everyone else hates_   _him._ Of course  _she’ll turn to me._

Willow picked up the phone and dialled.

“Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless.”

_Maybe I can even find a way to anchor that pesky soul…_

“Cordy?” Willow said. “You might want to sit down. I have some news….”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Angel shows up, with predictable results_

By the time Buffy finally emerged from her bedroom, clean and dressed, it was dusk.

As she went down the stairs, she could hear Spike, Tara and Dawn in the kitchen, talking about … milkshakes? Buffy sat down on the bottom step and listened for a while, not ready to join them.

Spike heard her come down, heard her stop. He wished he could make it easier for her somehow.

“Got some errands I need to run, but I’ll be back later.” Spike ran his hand over Dawn’s head.

“Before I go to sleep?”

“Yeah.” Spike turned to Tara. “There’s fixin’s for tacos, if you don’ mind makin’ dinner tonight?”

“Sure,” Tara said, nodding.

Buffy listened to them talking. It was so  _normal_. Dinner. Eating. It exhausted her just thinking about it.

She heard Spike leaving through the back door.

Dawn came out into the hallway. “Buffy?” she called, then jumped when she realised Buffy was sitting at the bottom of the stairs. “What are you doing there?”

“Just … sitting,” Buffy said.

“Oh.” They looked at each other. “Um, wanna help with dinner? It’s tacos.”

“Sure,” Buffy said, fixing her best fake smile, and forcing herself to stand.  _It will get easier with time. And I know this because it can’t_ possibly  _get harder._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“But Spike,  _the money_.”

“But Anya,  _the dusty_   _death_!”

“You’re very strong,” Anya purred, running her eyes up and down Spike’s arms. “And such a good fighter. I’m sure there’s no real danger to you.” She batted her eyelids.

“Think you’ve got something in your eye, pet.”

Anya threw her hands up in the air. “Well if flattery won’t work, what will?”

“Anya! For fuck’s sake, I said no!”

“You never used to worry about things like danger. Didn’t you tell me you scoffed at danger?”

“I bloody well hope not. Idiotic thing to say.”

Anya’s eyes narrowed. “Are you going soft on me, vampire?”

“You gonna call me yellow-bellied next? Maybe dare me to do it?”

“That always seems to work in Xander’s favourite movies.”

“Anya! This is not a bloody film!”

“I know that! But my cut would be  _six thousand dollars_. I’m … I’m saving for something special right now. I  _want_ that money!”

“I am not a helper of the soddin’ helpless. If that gormless git sold his soul, it’s his own bloody lookout!”

“But he’s a very rich gormless git! Whatever that means. And all you have to do is break into a casino, find the contract, and leave. Easy!”

“I’m a smash’n’grab type, Anya. This is a job for a soddin’ cat burglar. Or an army! I won’ do it. Besides, what am I supposed to do about any human security?”

_Unless that’s not such a problem anymore … still, there’s a time an’ a place to find that out an’ this isn’t bloody it._

Anya harrumphed. “Fine. But I think I should get twenty-five per cent until you’ve made up the six thousand you’ve lost me.”

Spike laughed. “Fat chance. Goodbye, Anya. I’m off to pick up a new telly.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dinner had been awkward. Buffy had barely eaten, and she’d spoken even less. Her tendency to just stare off into the distance was … disturbing. And the more Buffy retreated, the harder Dawn kept trying to tempt her back. Her repeated failures broke Tara’s heart, and Dawn was near tears by the end of the meal.

Willow was distracted and oblivious – alternating between frantic efforts to bolster Dawn’s attempts at conversation and getting lost in her own thoughts. She seemed excited about something, but Tara couldn’t imagine what that could possibly be.

As they were clearing the table, the doorbell rang.

Dawn ran to answer it.

“Dawn.”

She slammed the door in Angel’s face. Angel sighed.  _Maybe it was a mistake, coming here. We should have just met in between again_. Dawn just seemed to hate him more every time he saw her. He wrapped the guilt around himself like a familiar old coat.

“Buffy!” Dawn called.

Willow, Tara and Buffy came running into the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” asked Buffy.

“Is it a demon?” asked Tara.

Willow tried very hard not to smile in anticipation.

“Angel,” Dawn’s voice dripped with venom “is outside.” Her eyes smouldered and her jaw was ticking.

“It wasn’t very nice to slam the door in his face, Dawnie,” Willow said, gently.

Dawn turned to Willow. “He doesn’t deserve nice.”

Buffy flinched.

Dawn just stared at her. “How can you just keep …  _forgiving_ him? All he ever does is make things worse.”

“Dawn….”

“Forget it. Whatever. I don’t care. When he leaves and you start crying, it’ll be your own damn fault.” Dawn turned and stomped upstairs. Once inside her room, she opened her window, and prepared to listen and watch as much as she could.

Buffy turned to Willow and Tara. “I’m gonna just….”

“Of course, Buffy. We’ll be here if you need us,” Willow said.

Buffy opened the door, shutting it behind her and leaning against it.

Angel drank her in with his eyes. “Buffy.” His voice was hoarse. It felt so weird even saying her name. He’d made his peace with her death – something he’d never expected to survive – and it still felt like a betrayal. He wasn’t sure how he felt, now, seeing her again. There were too many powerful emotions competing.

 _She looks_ awful _. Did I look that bad when I first came back?_

“Angel,” Buffy breathed. She was bombarded with flashes of memory: stolen kisses in dark corners, a claddagh ring…. She reached out to him, tentatively, and he grabbed onto her wrists, pulling her tightly against him. The familiar physical intimacy covered his confused feelings.

“How did you know I was … back?” she murmured into his chest.

“Willow called. I drove straight here.” Angel pulled back to look down into her eyes, his hands resting on her shoulders, thumbs brushing against her collarbone. “It’s … I can’t believe you’re….”

“Just call me miracle-girl.” She turned her lips upwards in a ghost of a smile. She remembered him holding her as they danced.

 _So thin. I can feel every bone._ “Buffy, if you're in – if you're in pain. Or if you need anything…. If I can help you....”

“You can't.” She evaded his gaze, burrowing her face in his chest and tightened her arms around his waist. Being surrounded by his bulk was familiar, soothing.  _Safe_.

“Look, I … I know what you’re going through,” he said quietly. “So if you ever need to … talk …  _anything_. I’m here for you.”

 _More than anyone, you have_ no idea _what I’m going through_. Just as she had almost decided to tell him, another memory pushed through. Waking up alone in his bed …  _Angelus_.

_Jenny. Oh god, Jenny!_

It all came screaming back, with the weight and impact of a freight train.  _Giles. Giles and Jenny. Not just an old girlfriend…._

She bit back a sob.  _All my fault_.

Angel, convinced her sudden stiffening was due to some memory of hell, tightened his grip around her.

Buffy felt suffocated. Her Slayer senses were screaming at her that she should be killing the vampire. She wrenched herself out of his arms, and slid down against the door to crouch on the ground. She held her hands up protectively.

“Get back!” she almost shouted.

“I … I’m sorry,” he said, a spasm of pain crossed his face, and he backed off, leaning against the post. “What’s wrong? What did I do?”

“You killed Jenny,” she blurted out.

Angel frowned in confusion. “Buffy … we … I thought….” He had no idea what was going on, or how to react. Her heart was racing, and he could smell fear.

Buffy curled her arms around her knees and buried her face. Her knuckles were white from tension. She could see his face outside the window, laughing, while she cried.  _I couldn’t kill him so Jenny died._

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s just peachy,” she said softly.

“Really not getting that impression right now.” Angel crouched down next to her, worried.

Buffy tightened herself into an even smaller ball, flinching away from him.

“Buffy….”

“I know it doesn’t make any sense, but right now, my instincts are all telling me you’re still  _him_ … still Angelus.” Visions of him taunting her, threatening her friends, kept playing through her head.  _Dawn. God, what he did to Dawn…._  When she looked at his face – concerned, full of love – Angelus’ cold smirk kept flashing over it.

Angel let out a breath he couldn’t remember taking in. “I’m so sorry. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.”  _Couldn’t this hurt less at some point?_  “I would do anything to take those months back.”

She laughed, but it was dangerously close to crying. “Would you stay?”

“Buffy … we’ve talked about this. So many times. We agreed it was for the best.”

“I know.” She scrubbed at her face with her hands. “Doesn’t make it hurt less.”

He reached out to touch her again, and she flinched away. They stared at their feet for a while, both thinking that what they mostly seemed to share was pain and guilt.

Cordelia’s face appeared, suddenly, in Angel’s mind’s eye. Smiling. Laughing – at him and with him.  _Have I ever_ laughed  _with Buffy?_

Buffy thought about how safe she’d felt in Angel’s arms just moments ago. “When you came back after mom’s funeral, I really thought you would stay.”

“You told me to go,” he said quickly.  _God, that sounded petty._

Buffy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t think you’d agree with me.”

 _Yup. Petty._  “I … I love you, Buffy.” It sounded trite, even to him. Like an excuse.

“I loved you so much Angel, that I let people die. I loved you so much that there wasn’t room inside me to love anyone else.” Tears were running down her face.  _I can’t keep doing this._

“Buffy….”  _She said_ loved _._

It all felt so safe and familiar, the heartbreak, the doomed love that would last forever from afar. Neither of them wanted to acknowledge how empty it was becoming. Wanting the comfort of the physical spark that still seemed to exist, Angel inched closer and Buffy slowly uncurled her body. Their hands crept towards each other over the floor until Angel’s clasped around Buffy’s. They stared at their hands for a moment, feeling the tension build.

Suddenly Buffy jolted back like she’d been scalded, shoving his hand away, looking at him with abject horror. “Cookie-dough-fudge-mint-chip!” she gasped out.

Angel went rigid, shocked. “You weren’t supposed to remember … that day  _never happened_.”

“Oh my god, you … we could’ve…. You  _bastard_!”

All the pent-up aggression from a long day of sitting indoors bubbled up, and Buffy finally gave in to the instincts that had been screaming for her to attack ever since she’d sensed Angel’s presence. She leapt to her feet and kicked out at his head.

Angel threw himself back in time to catch it on the nose instead of the temple, but he still went backwards over the stairs, landing awkwardly and painfully on the ground. His nose was broken and bleeding.

“I couldn’t protect you as a human!” he said, gingerly getting to his feet.

“ _I died!_ ” she shouted. “Where was your precious protection when I was up on that tower?” Buffy jumped down the steps and threw her whole body into another punch to his face.

Angel felt his cheekbone shatter.

“Ow! Buffy, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Too late!” she grunted, flying at him again, punching and kicking for all she was worth.

Angel didn’t remember her being this strong the last time they’d fought. At a loss, and genuinely beginning to worry for his own survival, he hit back.

She wasn’t expecting it, and his punch dislocated her left shoulder. Screaming in pain, her eyes went completely cold. The Slayer took over, her injury forgotten. Sure, she couldn’t lift her arm above her waist, but….

Angel only just dodged her punch to his balls, but she was now in close enough that he could use his size and reach to his advantage, picking her up and controlling her arms with a grappling move. With her injured shoulder, she just couldn’t get the leverage to break her upper body free.

She grunted in frustration and wrapped her legs around him to beat at his kidneys with her heels.

“Enough already! I get the point, Buffy!”  _This is ridiculous._

Still locked into survival mode, she just re-angled to try and take out his knees. Her heels plunging into the backs of both knees was too much, and Angel lost his balance. As he fell, he took in a deep breath, and suddenly he could smell something … familiar....

“Are you  _sleeping_ with  _Spike_?” Angel asked, horrified.

In shock, he relaxed his grip, and she wriggled out. She spun a kick into his solar plexus. Angel, still too dazed at what he’d smelled on her skin, just took the hit. But when Buffy came in for a follow-up, he swerved out of the way and grabbed her ankle, using her momentum to fling her against a porch pillar.

The crash brought Buffy back. Dazed, she dragged herself upright. She stared at Angel, not immediately understanding why he was dripping with blood and barely staying upright.  _And what happened to my shoulder?_

“Seriously?” he said. “Spike?”

She felt he was looking at her like she’d murdered a puppy and drunk its blood on Christmas morning in front of a room full of children.

“Huh?” Buffy said.

The scent of Spike got stronger. Angel spun around, and saw him standing on the sidewalk, carrying a TV box.

“What the fuck is  _he_  doin’ here?” Spike demanded, putting down the box.

“ _Me?_  What right have you got to be here!”

“I bloody well live here!” Spike yelled.

“No,” Angel said, walking towards Spike. “You can’t possibly! Just because she’s having some depraved post-resurrection kinky sex thing with you….”

Buffy froze in horror. She remembered her body’s reaction to Spike earlier in the day.  _This is wrong. This is wrong on every level it is possible for something to be wrong._

“Jealous much?” Spike leered, curling his tongue against his teeth suggestively.

Buffy cringed.  _Oh my god. What is wrong with me?_

“My god, Buffy…. What’s  _wrong_ with you?” Angel launched himself at Spike. “I should never have let you live, you bastard.”

“Stop!” Buffy yelled. “Both of you, stop.”

Spike stopped. Immediately. Angel didn’t.

Spike slammed his jaw back into place, his eyes watering from the pain. “Prick,” he growled.

Angel growled back.

“Angel … go back to LA.”

Spike smirked.

“Buffy—” Angel started.

“After what you did … I’m not…. Just go.”

“I’ll always come if you need me,” Angel said, limping towards his car.

“You,” Buffy turned to Spike. He ran to her, and gently caressed her wounded shoulder with his fingertips. She shuddered at the jolt to her senses.  _Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._  “Why are you even here?” She shoved him away from her.

“What’s this about, Love?” he asked. “Did Captain Forehead do this?”

Angel growled.

“I’m not your ‘luv’.” Buffy said harshly.

Spike just stared at her.  _What the fuck?_  His stomach was twisting into knots.

Angel laughed.

“And this will never be your home,” she went on, cutting herself with the sharpness of her voice.  _Spike_ shouldn’t  _live with me. It’s wrong!_  “You were  _convenient_.” Buffy could feel something breaking in her watching the hurt flow across his face, but she couldn’t stop herself. Angel’s look of revulsion kept replaying in her head.

Spike’s whole universe was unravelling. “You ungrateful  _bitch_!” He was trembling with rage and a bone-shattering loss that was worse than anything he’d ever felt before.

“Face it, Spike,” Angel said. “You’re beneath her.” He got into his car with a smile on his face. God, he loved watching Spike fail.

“Just please leave.” Buffy said, forcing her voice to stay calm despite what felt like a tsunami building up inside her. She turned her back on them, forcing herself to walk up the porch steps, even though she wanted to run. She opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her. Buffy leaned back against the door, eyes closed.  _What is wrong with me?_

When she opened them again, she saw Dawn, halfway down the stairs, staring at her with pure hate. “How  _could_ you?” she asked. “He wasn’t here for  _you_! He was here for  _me_!”

“Dawnie—”

“I don’t care, Buffy!” she yelled. Then, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “I don’t care why you’re taking away the only person who really cares about me. But I will  _never_  forgive you for it.”

They both jumped when the door shuddered with the impact of a TV being hurled against it.

No longer able to hold herself up, Buffy slumped down on the floor against the door and started crying.

Dawn looked down at her with contempt. “Told you so.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike nearly broke his phone dialling the Magic Box.

“Anya? I’ll take that job.”

He held the phone away from his ear as she squealed. “Wonderful! Can you do it tonight?”

“All the better. ‘M in the mood for killin’.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aftermath, and the beginning of the job_

Buffy felt hollowed out inside. She knew there were tears running down her face, that her shoulders were shaking with each shuddering breath, but it didn’t touch her. It was just her body ringing out the changes. She was lost.

Dawn stomped upstairs, slamming her door and then the bar. Willow and Tara crept out from the kitchen and stared at the broken girl huddled at the door.

Willow felt awful. She’d imagined that Angel coming now would be like it had been after Joyce’s funeral. He and Buffy would stay together for a few hours, maybe a day, and sure, she’d be sad afterwards, but she’d be  _better_. Willow had never even imagined  _this_.

Willow approached her tentatively. “C’mon, Buffy,” she said gently, crouching down beside her and taking one hand in hers. “There’s ice cream.”

Tara stopped in the hallway, confused.  _We were out of ice cream this morning. I put it on the list...._

Willow tried to pull Buffy to her feet. But the tug on her dislocated shoulder forced a near-scream of pain out of her, and Willow dropped her hand.

“Oh, Buffy! Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”

“I think … dislocated shoulder,” Buffy gasped through her tears. The pain forced her to acknowledge her surroundings.

Willow was now near tears herself.  _I made this happen. I was only trying to help and now she … she’s_ broken _, and … and he hurt her!_  Willow had a sudden, horrible thought. “Buffy! Angel isn’t … he hasn’t lost his soul again, has he?”

Buffy shook her head.

Willow relaxed slightly, but kept hovering, afraid to hurt Buffy again, but desperately wanting to help.

Buffy forced her breath into something less gasping, strong instead of weak. She awkwardly pushed herself upright against the door, and took a few steps towards the doorway into the living room. She gritted her teeth and rammed her shoulder against the frame, popping it back into place.

Tara and Willow flinched.

“C-can I get you an ice pack? For your shoulder?” Tara asked tentatively.

Buffy nodded, turned towards Tara and gave her a small half-smile, then stumbled to the sofa and curled herself into a tight ball, her head resting on the arm.

“I’ll get it,” Willow said. Turning to Tara, “Baby? Can you leave us alone for some best-friend-time?”

Tara nodded. “Of course.” As she started up the stairs, she heard Willow muttering something on her way into the kitchen.

A pint of ice cream materialised on the kitchen counter. Willow took it, two spoons and an ice pack from the freezer and went back to Buffy in the living room.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

He knew he’d missed something important when he saw Spike striding through Restfield, vamped out, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle.

He knew it was bad when he watched him pick a fight with a six hundred pound Chirago demon and win in minutes, without weapons.

When he overheard Spike on the phone talking about a job, he left to find the DeSoto. He slipped a tracer onto its undercarriage, then went back to the motel to get his car. And weapons. He had a feeling he would need them tonight.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles felt the dread mounting higher the more he read – or, more accurately, the more he  _didn’t_  read. After talking him through the ritual and its aftermath, Anya had brought him every book they’d used. There were five. Five! For something of this magnitude, with the possible risks…. They hadn’t looked any further than the books already in the Magic Box. They had chosen the urn of Osiris because of a  _footnote_ in a book about demon mating rituals.

Giles shuddered.  _Mustn’t think about_ why  _any of them were looking at a book like that._

Also disturbing was Anya’s insistence that there had never been any effort to find out exactly where Buffy had been after she died. The others had just accepted Willow’s certainty that she was trapped in a hell dimension. But as far as he knew, no one had  _ever checked_.

It had never occurred to Giles that Buffy might have gone somewhere hellish after her death. The cause of death had been the fall – natural causes, surely? He wasn’t sure which prospect frightened him more: that Willow had been right, or that she’d been wrong.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Part of him knew he was being suicidally stupid. This sort of job needed weeks of planning.  _Well, days…. At least hours!_  All Spike had was the casino’s address and the name on the contract.

_Should plan somethin’ before rushing in._

_Never been any good at waitin’._

_Fuck it._

He’d been  _so sure_ that it would be alright. Wary acceptance from the Watcher. Anya nagging at him to pay rent was just another way of saying he was a permanent fixture – that he mattered _._  Just this afternoon, being told he’d no longer be kicked to the curb every Friday because he wasn’t so …  _convenient_ … on weekends.

_Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

He took another pull at the whiskey.

_I really_ will _die if I do this wankered._

_Fuck it._

He downed the rest of the bottle.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The man pulled his car into the lot a few minutes after the DeSoto, and parked as far away as he could.

_Jenoff’s Casino? This must be the job. What can he possibly hope to accomplish here?_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike slammed the trunk shut, sword now strapped to his back and a double-headed axe in his hand. His idea was to march straight into the casino and demand the contract. Damn the consequences. He had to concentrate to walk in a straight line, but he was just about managing. He could take whoever was in there. Probably. Maybe. He hoped.

A few feet from the front door, he felt his phone going off.

“Fuck!” he yelled. He pulled it out, intending to throw it at something. But it was Dawn. “Fuck,” he repeated more softly.

“’Lo, Bit,” he said into the phone.

“Ohmigod! Spike!” she screeched. Spike held the phone a bit farther away from his ear. “I’ve been trying to call you  _forever_!”

“Sorry,” he said. “Phone was in the boot.”

“You were driving?” Dawn’s voice was panicky. “Are you leaving? Where are you?”

He sighed. “Not leavin’. Promised, never gonna leave you.”  _But you were, weren’t you? Useless wanker that you are._  “Jus’ doing a job. Home after.”

There was a long silence as they took in that ‘home’ now meant the crypt.

“I hate her.”

“No, you don’t.” Spike sighed again. “How much did you hear?” He started walking back to his car.

Dawn made a scornful noise. “Everything, duh! It was the middle of the lawn.” Her voice went quieter, more subdued. “So … are you and Buffy-?”

“No,” Spike said, more harshly than he’d intended, dropping the axe into the back seat.

“But—” Dawn started hopefully.

“Dawn,” he growled.

“I know you love her.”

Spike laughed mirthlessly. “Needs to be mutual, pet.” He lit a cigarette.

There was another silence.

“I heard what she said to you.”

“Really wish you hadn’.”

“Have I mentioned that I hate her?”

“Dawn….”

“You’re everything to me.” Dawn said, voice wavering with the beginning of tears.

“My Sweet Bit,” he said softly.

“Come  _home_ , Spike. Please? You said you’d be back before I went to sleep tonight.”

“I know, pet. ‘M sorry.”

“But you will come home eventually, won’t you?  _Real_ home? With me?” Dawn asked, voice small and fearful.

Spike stubbed out his cigarette and rubbed his hand over his face. “If she wants me gone….”

“I-is something wrong with her? Is she … forgetting again?” Dawn wished Spike was there, with her, and not on the other end of the phone.

“Bit—”

“It was scary, watching them fight. It wasn’t sparring. I’ve seen them spar. She was acting like … you know … when he was Angelus. But he’s not, is he?” Dawn was starting to work herself up.

“No. ‘M sure of that much,” Spike said firmly.

“It was like … it wasn’t even Buffy anymore.”

“ _You_ bring her back, Dawn. Whatever happens, you’ll always be able to bring her back. She loves you. So much. She’ll never hurt you.”  _That soddin’ wanker sent her into a bloody fugue state. Bet His Broodiness never noticed, either. No wonder she was actin’ like she was…._

Dawn sniffled a bit, but didn’t argue.

“Could you hear what they were sayin’? Before the fightin’?”

“They were under the porch roof, so not much, unless they were yelling. I think I heard Buffy say something about cookies? And then he fell down the stairs ass-backwards. I’m pretty sure she broke his nose.”

Spike smiled.

“You’re totally grinning right now because she broke his nose, aren’t you?” Dawn said suspiciously.

“Am not!”  _Smilin’s not the same as grinnin’. Not lyin’._

“You are such a child.”

Spike growled and Dawn let out a half-hearted giggle.

“You gonna be alrigh’ tonight, Pigeon?”

“Can I come hang out with you tomorrow?”

“Not sure what shape I’ll be in….”

“It’s a fight-y sorta job, huh?”

“Yeah.”  _Dust-y sorta job, more like._

“I’ll bring blood and bandages. We’ll watch awful TV and laugh at it while you recover – or, you know, just smile, if you’ve got broken ribs again.”

Spike sighed. “Only if big sis says it’s alrigh’. No runnin’ off without telling anyone where you’ve gone.”

“Fine.” Dawn pouted, then realised he couldn’t see it and stopped. “I’ll come over when I get up.”

“See you tomorrow, Bit.”

“See you tomorrow, Spike.”

He heard her breath catch.

“Don’t die on me, okay?”

“Do m’best,” he mumbled.

“Promise me!”

Spike shut his eyes. “Promise.”  _Stupid git. Better not bloody break that promise._

“’Kay,” Dawn said, satisfied. “Bye then.”

“Bye.”

Spike put the phone back in his pocket and looked up at the windowless concrete monstrosity of a casino.

“I am so buggered,” he whispered.

Spike got back in his car and lit another cigarette while he tried to figure out how the hell he was going to carry this off.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike put his duster back on over the sword sheath. It meant he couldn’t reach the sword without taking off the coat first, but he figured he’d be less likely to need it if it wasn’t obvious he was carrying it. He’d had to give up on the axe – it just wasn’t possible to carry it hidden. He had four knives – one at each ankle and wrist – and a stake tucked into the small of his back beneath the sword. Looking down at the line of his coat, he figured that was as much as he could carry without it being obvious he had weapons on him.

As he stalked towards the door of the casino, he never noticed the man who’d been following him for months getting out of his car and following him inside.

The inside of the casino was a remarkable mix of human and demon.  _Guess illegal gambling joints’re equal opportunity enterprises_.

Spike looked around for doors marked private, or anything that looked like it was for staff instead of customers. But it was one big cavern – same dimensions as the building outside. The only door was for a lift, presumably leading to a basement level.

He sauntered over, and pressed the call button. Just as the doors were closing behind him, a man with very short hair who moved like a soldier pushed inside the car. He gave Spike the awkward half-smile of lift-sharers, then turned away.

Spike passed the time as they went down by memorising the man’s scent.  _Trace of gun oil, unscented soap … oh yes, definitely a soldier._

When the lift doors finally opened, they looked out into a restaurant straight out of 1950s Vegas, complete with booths.

_Smaller than the casino floor upstairs. Gotta be a soddin’ office somewhere down here._

A short, ugly demon with exceptionally small sunglasses jerked his head up and watched them as they walked in. Spike ignored him, sauntering over to a booth near the kitchen and sitting down.

The soldier sat down in the far corner of the other side of the room, and Spike stopped paying attention to him.

A blue-skinned waitress was at Spike’s side almost immediately, simpering slightly in the hope of tips. He twitched his lips into a polite smile, ordered coffee, and asked her to keep them coming. She flounced off, disappointed by his order. He sat back and waited for someone to show him where the office was by going in, hoping he'd have sobered up a bit by the time he actually had to do something.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

When Giles arrived back at Revello Drive, it was nearly midnight and all the upstairs lights were off. Anya had gone home hours ago, but he’d stayed, reading, trying desperately to find  _something_  that would make what they’d done seem less dangerous.

He hadn't found anything.

He couldn't get his own head around all the possible ramifications, given the interruption of the spell, the breaking of the circle, and the complexity of the magic. He was also concerned about how the presence of an interdimensional key might have affected the proceedings.

Anya had explained most of the substitutions they’d made for ingredients that were unavailable or that they didn’t recognise, and she knew all the changes in wording they’d made. But he had  _nothing_ on the urn of Osiris beyond the footnote about the demon who’d successfully resurrected his lover using one. There were also a few ingredients that Willow had taken care of by herself, without involving Anya or her Magic Box contacts. “Vino de Madre” worried him the most, because the only time he’d seen it in a spell, it had involved the sacrifice of virgins for their blood. He wouldn’t allow himself to even suspect that Willow could have gone  _that_ far, but whatever she had used as a substitute, it wouldn’t be something to be proud of.

He was dreading talking to Willow about what she’d done. He knew it would be painful for both of them, and he also knew that if he lost his temper again, she would never tell him  _everything_. And he had to know. He had to know if Buffy’s problems were magical or psychological.

To his surprise, he found Buffy in the basement, pounding on the punching bag. She was drenched in sweat, and her un-taped hands and feet were bruised and bloody.

“Buffy,” Giles called out gently from the stairs.

She turned and looked up at him. She looked haunted – agonised – before she shook herself and forced her lips into a smile that never reached her eyes.

Giles’ heart broke a little bit more. “I think it’s time for bed, my dear,” he said quietly.

Buffy nodded, then winced as she started walking on her damaged feet.

“Can I do anything to help?” he asked, looking at her hands and feet.

Buffy shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” She examined her injuries. “It looks worse than it feels.”

Giles nodded, watching her walk gingerly up the stairs and shut the door behind her. He fell back onto the bed, suddenly exhausted.

As Buffy sat at the breakfast bar with the first aid kit and cleaned herself up, she hoped desperately that her body was exhausted enough to keep the nightmares away.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike and the soldier sipped their coffees on opposite sides of the room and watched the people and demons coming and going between the restaurant and the main floor upstairs. There was a steady trickle in and out of two doors they each (correctly) identified as private gaming rooms – the high roller tables, going by the punters’ clothes.

The ugly demon with sunglasses hovered around a section of wall that Spike suspected was a third, magically camouflaged, door.

His suspicions were confirmed when another demon – better dressed but just as ugly – appeared beside the first one seemingly out of thin air. The two got into the lift, so Spike waited for the next crowd of gamblers to come down and occupy the attention of the waitress and patrons, before sauntering over to the wall and feeling for the handle. It wasn’t locked. Spike just slipped in.

The soldier in the far corner watched in shock as Spike disappeared.

It was an office, as Spike had hoped, but there was nothing to suggest there were any valuables stored there – no pictures on the walls to conceal a safe, not even a filing cabinet. The desk didn’t even have drawers.

_Although … door in was hidden magically. Reckon anythin’ valuable’d be hidden too…._

Spike closed his eyes and started using his nose. Only one scent in the room.  _Must’ve been Jenoff just now, then._ But there was definitely a reek of magic hanging about the place. He started running his hands over the walls, eyes still closed, feeling for another hidden door or a safe, trying to sniff out where the magic was coming from.

After almost half an hour of searching, he found it. There was a box he could feel, but couldn’t see, underneath the desk. It felt like old, well-weathered wood, but it was heavy, like it was filled with lead or gold or something. He could feel a keyhole at its front, so he pulled out one of his knives and started trying to jimmy the lock. The knife blade snapped off – too quickly.

_Bloody hate magic._

Spike shrugged off his coat and pulled out his sword. But striking at the box was like hammering at concrete. His bones rattled with the impact, and he reckoned he was lucky the damn thing hadn’t broken his sword as well. Shaking off the pain, he put the sword back in its sheath and the coat back on.

He sat down on the floor in front of the box.

_Blood?_

He pulled out another knife, nicked the little finger of his right hand, and pressed it up against the lock. It burned up the blood, scorching his finger and making the room stink of burned flesh.

_Not blood, then … least, not mine._

The magic smell started getting stronger, and Spike could almost see the box’s outline shimmering in the air. He thought it looked suspiciously like he’d set off some kind of alarm.

He sprang to his feet, and went to open the door, but it was locked.

_Not good._

He looked at the gap between the door and its frame – there was no physical lock. Plus, it opened inwards. No way to break out.

There were no other exits. The only furniture was the desk and chair, neither of which offered any places for concealment.

_Bugger._

Spike lugged the box up and onto the desk, and sat down in the chair. Even with his strength, it was hard work lifting it that far.

_Definitely can’t carry the bloody thing out, then._

He shrugged out of his coat and got out the sword. He placed it across his knees, where it was at least partially hidden by the desk.

Then he sat back and waited for Jenoff to respond to the alarm.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _More of the job, and Buffy's nightmares_

With the vampire gone, the man decided to find Jenoff. When he eventually found the demon, he was high above the casino floor on a fixture somewhere between a balcony and a pulpit. A woman was kneeling at his feet, his index and middle fingers resting over her eyes. It looked like she was receiving absolution – until Jenoff started sucking out her soul.

He shuddered.  _How is this going unnoticed?_

Jenoff rolled his head back in ecstasy. As the woman slumped at his feet, he blinked his eyes open sleepily and smiled, licking his lips. He shoved her out of his way with one foot – expending so little energy and attention, it couldn't even be called a kick – to lean his elbows on the railing, looking out over his domain of desperation and greed.

The man slipped into the crowd, feeling sick. Watching a soul being eaten … he felt soiled knowing he’d done nothing to stop it.

He followed Jenoff from a distance as he did the rounds of his pit bosses. The soul sucker seemed to be able to sense hopelessness – always knew when someone was cheating or losing more than they could afford – and he was ready, waving in one of his men with a timely offer. Or punishment.

After many interventions orchestrated from the sidelines, Jenoff finally stepped over to speak personally to an acutely distraught man who appeared to have lost everything at blackjack.

The man watching them was too far away to hear their conversation, but he could see everything perfectly. Jenoff pulled a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it to his soon-to-be victim, then twisted a ring around on his finger, before shaking his hand. The victim let out a squeal of pain, cringing away from Jenoff, who pressed his now-bleeding hand against the paper. The paper flashed white before Jenoff placed it back in his pocket.

Jenoff nodded to the dealer, who gave the relieved victim a very large pile of chips.

_So. There are contracts. And a magic ring._

_The job must be to retrieve a contract. How ... honourable._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow and Tara woke up at the first scream.

They ran out into the hallway, where the next scream led them to Buffy’s room.

They burst through the door – fully expecting demons – and froze in shock when the overhead light revealed Buffy, alone, trapped in a nightmare and valiantly fighting against something only she could see.

Willow ran straight to her friend, but caught a kick to the gut that sent her flying into the wall.

“Willow!” Tara shouted, running to where Willow lay crumpled on the floor.

The bang on her wall woke Dawn, who stumbled blearily into the bedroom in time to see Tara helping a dazed Willow to her feet, and Buffy going suddenly rigid with pain, arching up off the bed and letting out a third scream, louder and longer than the others.

It was agonising to watch.

“Buffy!” Dawn shrieked.

That woke Giles up, but did nothing to break the nightmare’s grip on Buffy.

“What’s wrong with her?” Dawn whimpered more quietly.

“I think nightmares,” Willow said, miserably.  _She’s probably fighting her way out of the coffin…._

Satisfied Willow was okay, Tara walked around to the other side of the bed, trying to reach Buffy from the back, but she kept twisting and turning on the bed, and Tara only just managed to avoid being punched.

Then Giles arrived, panting, at the bedroom door.

Buffy screamed a fourth time, but it tapered off and collapsed into shuddering sobs, her arms flopping and fluttering instead of punching. They watched her curl into a ball, weeping.

Willow ran to her again. “Buffy, please, you’ve gotta wake up!” She gently shook her shoulder, until Buffy’s tear-swollen eyes finally blinked open.

“Whatcha doing in my room, Wills?” she asked hoarsely, remnants of her nightmare still flashing around the periphery of her vision.

“You were having a nightmare,” Willow said.

Buffy struggled up into a sitting position, balking when she realised how many people were in the room, all of them staring at her. Despite her pyjamas, she felt naked and exposed. “Was I … loud?” she asked nervously, curling up against her headboard.

“Little bit,” Tara said, wincing in sympathy.

Buffy huddled around herself, shivering. Dawn dragged the bedcovers up off the floor, and passed them to her sister. Buffy hid herself in them, pulling the edges up to her chin so only her face and fingertips were visible. She looked gratefully at Dawn. “Thanks.”

Dawn shrugged nonchalantly, and Buffy sagged back against the bed.

“I – I think I wanna try to get back to sleep now, guys. Could you, um, go? Please?” Her voice was still hoarse and shaky, but the words came out determinedly.  _Getting so much better at pretending._

“Of course,” Giles said, still a little breathless. “If you need anything….”

“I’ll call. Promise.” Buffy shut her eyes and waited until she heard the door close. Then she scrunched herself down as small as she could, shoved her fist in her mouth, and let the tears come.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

By the time Jenoff and his sidekick came through the door, Spike was ready to climb the walls from boredom.

“’Bout bloody time you showed up!” he griped. “Don’t you lot take your burglar alarms serious-like?”

Mini-Sunglasses flinched. Jenoff laughed. “I don’t recognise you,” he said. Looking at the faint outline of the bespelled box on the desk, he added, “I presume you’re here on behalf of someone else?”

Spike raised one eyebrow.

Jenoff scented the air, then smiled. “Well! I am intrigued. What’s a  _vampire_  doing trying to save a soul?”

“Gettin’ paid, you pillock.” Spike said scornfully.

“Ah.” Jenoff stared at him intently. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as one whose … needs … could be met by mere money.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Leave off the sales pitch, yeah?” He pointed at his chest. “No shiny soul for you to suck here.”

Jenoff looked surprised for the first time. “You’re  _not_ the souled vampire?”

“Just  _once_ in my fuckin’ life….” Spike muttered angrily.

Jenoff didn’t react, just kept looking at Spike speculatively. “No  _real_ vampire would touch this sort of do-gooder work. And you positively  _reek_ of need.” He snapped his fingers. “You must be that crazy chipped one I’ve heard tell about.”

Spike groaned. “Soddin’ demon rumour mill! ‘S worse’n a bunch of old women.”

Jenoff laughed again. “But it’s such a catchy tune!” He put on a sad, sympathetic expression. “Is it true you’re literally impotent – not just, you know?” Jenoff bared his teeth, then snapped them shut, eyes dancing.

Spike went into game face, grinning menacingly. “Chip only works on humans, you stupid git. Or did the old biddies forget to mention that?”

“You can’t hurt me,” Jenoff scoffed.

“Wanna bet?” Spike leapt over the desk, sword out, and in one fluid movement took Jenoff’s head clean off.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Poor Buffy,” Willow said quietly as the door shut behind them.

“Hey, where’s Spike?” Tara said, frowning. “Wasn’t he supposed to be home early tonight?”

“Buffy kicked him out,” Dawn said bitterly.

“What?” Tara asked, puzzled. “When?”

“Did he do something to her?” Giles asked.

“He did  _nothing_!” Dawn shrieked. “God! Why do you  _always_ think it’s his fault? I’m going to bed.” She flounced off in a huff, slamming the door behind her.

“Um, guys? Maybe we should take this conversation out of the hallway? So Buffy can sleep?” Willow said hesitantly.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Giles said softly.

They trooped down to the kitchen. Giles put on the kettle, while Tara started mixing herbs together for tea. Willow sank into a chair at the breakfast bar.

“Buffy was in pieces when I got back tonight,” Giles said, finally. “And now screaming nightmares for the first time? Will one of you please tell me what on earth happened today?”

There was a heavy silence.

“Angel came,” Willow said finally.

“How did he know, Will?” Tara asked, her voice calm and even, intent on putting herbs into mugs.

Looking carefully at her lap and picking lint off of her pyjamas, Willow said quietly, “Um…. I mighta sorta … called him?”

“ _Why?_ ” Giles asked. “Surely even you must have recognised the potential for disaster in such an action?”  _She’s so fragile, so unlike herself right now._

Willow straightened, looking at Tara and Giles. “He  _loves_ her! I thought … I thought she should have people around who love her. I thought it would help!”

“And damn the consequences….” Giles muttered to himself, throwing a tea bag into a mug.

“No, Willow,” Tara said firmly. “I d-don’t believe that’s why you c-c-called him.” She hated confrontations, and it was late and she was exhausted, but she just couldn’t let this slide. What she suspected Willow had done was awful … and she had to  _know_.

Willow flinched. “I – I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she said, trying for indignant, but she knew she hadn’t quite brought it off.

“She thought she and B-Buffy would b-b-bond again, didn’t you Willow? ‘Best-friend-time’?” Tara felt sick, watching Willow’s face, reading in it that she was right. “B-Buffy was  _broken_ when Angel left – physically and emotionally. And Willow had ice cream, ready and waiting _,_ so she c-could swoop in to p-p-pick up the pieces.”

Willow bust into tears. She was already agonising about how hurt Buffy had been after Angel left. She already blamed herself for the nightmares, for Buffy coming back trapped in her coffin. And now – they were all looking at her like she was some kind of monster. “I’m sorry!” she wailed. “I thought it would help! I only ever wanted to help.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” Giles said very softly.  _And I’m not sure I want to._  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going downstairs. I … I don’t trust myself to deal with this appropriately right now.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Mini-Sunglasses sucked air in through his teeth. “Oughtn’t’ve done that, mate.”

“Oh no?” Spike sneered.

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “You’ve only gone an’ brassed ‘im off now.”

With horror, Spike watched a new head sprouting out of Jenoff’s neck. It was white and rubbery and horrible and it was screaming so loudly Spike thought his eardrums might burst.

“What  _are_ you?”

“I am a Soul Sucker,” Jenoff said hoarsely, his head now almost fully restored. “And you are about to be very sorry that you crossed me.”

_Buggering fuck._

Dazed by the screaming and the shock of Jenoff re-growing his head, Spike let Mini-Sunglasses and a few of his friends haul him out of the office.

The restaurant had been cleared of punters, and filled with what looked like Jenoff’s entire staff – many of them armed, and all of them large and threatening. But all Spike could smell was demon, so even though he was outnumbered by more than he could be bothered to count, he wasn’t too worried.

He managed to decapitate six and seriously maim at least another ten before his sword was finally knocked out of his hand. He spared a moment to tut that Jenoff’s minions didn’t know how to fight as a group –  _Big Bads just can’t get the help these days_  – but it was just so much  _fun_ playing them against each other! He was laughing and taunting as he ducked and weaved, watching them take each other out instead of him.

He was just beginning to really enjoy himself with the brawling when he caught his first whiff of human sweat and suddenly his fist was connecting with a face that didn’t belong to a demon.

There was no time for him to pull the punch. As he heard the telltale crunch of a spine snapping from the impact, his chip flared violently. His vision whited out for a few seconds, and blood started streaming out of his nose and ears.

_Not stopped workin’ completely – jus’ Buffy. ‘S okay. Can still do this…._

Then, somewhere way back in the part of his brain not completely consumed by the pain or the need to keep fighting, he noticed the sound of the lift pinging, and a  _much_ stronger scent of human.

_Bugger._

The fight didn’t last long after that.

“Do we dust ’im?” Mini-Sunglasses asked, kicking Spike’s unconscious form along the floor towards his boss.

“Not yet,” Jenoff said. “I want to make an example of him – something public. Have to make sure everyone understands the rules.”

Mini-Sunglasses grinned. “Sounds like fun.”

“No one gets out of my contracts. No one.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

After flouncing into her bedroom, Dawn had only waited until the stairs stopped creaking before creeping back out to listen to the conversation going on in the kitchen.

She might be angry, but that didn’t mean she was willing to pass up on knowing what was going on.

Dawn was genuinely surprised by what she heard. And, if she was honest, more than a little bit scared. For all the times Dawn had felt uncomfortable around Willow in the weeks after Buffy died, she had never doubted for a second that she was Buffy’s best friend. That Willow could  _plan_  something to hurt Buffy, just so that she could comfort her afterwards…. It was scary. Best friends just weren’t supposed to do things like that.

When Dawn heard Giles shut the basement door, she crept back upstairs and into her bedroom. She listened to Tara and Willow come up the stairs. Willow was still crying and the complete and total absence of comforting words from Tara was deafening in its judgement. Muffled shouting and crying continued from their room for a good hour afterwards.

That was scary, too. Willow and Tara’s relationship had always made Dawn feel so  _safe_. She had never seen a relationship like theirs before. They never fought – not really. When there were problems, they’d just talk, and then it was always fine again. Dawn couldn’t remember a time when her parents had been  _civil_ to each other, let alone loving. And Buffy’s boyfriends? High angst rollercoasters of half-truths and omissions, every last one of them.

Dawn had been  _so sure_  that it would all be alright. Coming home from the ice cream place with Tara, she’d started feeling …  _hopeful_.

But now Spike was  _gone._  Because of stupid Buffy and her stupid Angel issues.

Even Buffy was gone. Sort of. Strong Buffy – Slayer Buffy – had disappeared, and she’d left behind a girl Dawn didn’t recognise, one that stared off into space and who screamed out in fear in the middle of the night.

 _She’s still screaming_.

Dawn got out of bed and ran into Buffy’s room for the second time that night.

“Buffy?” She stopped just inside in the doorway.

The overhead lights were still on, and Buffy was curled into a ball in the centre of the bed. Buffy blinked her eyes open.  _Not again._  “Dawnie?” Her voice was barely there, cracked and wavering. Her eyes looked bruised, swollen from crying and circled by black shadows. Her face was lined, brackets of pain around her mouth, making her look years older. And she was still  _so thin_.

“Are you okay?” Dawn asked before she could stop herself, hating the whine she could hear in her voice.  _God, what a dumb question._  She walked further into the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

“No,” Buffy said. “Not really.”

Dawn sat down on the edge of the bed, looking down at her sister with pleading eyes. “It’s got to get better. Right?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

When Spike finally flickered back to consciousness, he was hanging from a wall by his wrists.

_Not dust. Thank fuck for that._

Refreshingly, his face was undamaged, so it was only chip-induced white spots interfering with his vision when he finally opened his eyes. He saw a bare cell, with small, high windows that thankfully still showed a pre-dawn sky.

A man was crouched on the other side of the bars, mostly in shadow, watching him. Spike could hear his heartbeat, slow and even. He could also smell gun oil and unscented soap.

“I believe you are trying to liberate a contract,” the soldier from the lift said, in careful English. “I would like to offer you my assistance.”

“Who are you?” Spike asked, groggily.

“My name is Bohdan Kosík,” he replied. “But that isn’t important. You permit?” He held up two thin strips of metal, and began to pick the lock of Spike’s cell.

“Why?” Spike asked.

“This is an evil place,” Bohdan said, almost absently, as he worked on the lock. When the cell door sprang open, he looked up again. “How bad are your injuries?”

Spike wrapped his fingers around the chains and pulled himself upright, slowly letting his legs take his weight again. One knee was a bit weak and his shoulders were stiff and aching, but it was his torso that seemed to have taken the worst of it. He’d definitely broken a few ribs – felt like one had nicked a lung, too. And judging by the pain and swelling, he reckoned he didn’t have much left intact in the way of internal organs. Just as he was thinking he’d got off relatively lightly, he lifted his head away from the wall. It felt like ice picks stabbing into his skull with even the slightest movement, and the world spun violently as soon as the support was gone. He laid his head back against the wall slowly and carefully. The spinning stopped, but the pain remained.

“Balance’s shot. Can walk. Pro’ly. Anything else? Useless ‘til I’ve had some blood.”

Bohdan nodded and started walking towards him.

Spike tried to laugh at the situation, but it rapidly turned into a wet cough as something caught in his lungs. The movement was too much for his head, and he passed out again for a few seconds.

When he blinked back to consciousness, Bohdan was standing in front of him, working on the wrist manacles. Spike stared, mesmerised, at the pulsing vein in front of his face. He could feel his whole body resonating in time with the heartbeat pounding in his ears. The bones in his face started to shift.

Bohdan slapped him. Hard. “You have control. Use it.”

The white-hot pain running through Spike’s skull at the movement was enough to shock him back to himself.

Bohdan freed Spike’s left hand from its manacle, quickly followed by his right. He stepped back and away, warily.

“You got a plan, Bohdan Kosík?” Spike asked.

Bohdan smiled. “I am not reckless, like you. I always have a plan.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Spike tries to escape the clutches of Jenoff and Buffy is still very depressed_

“Would’ve been fine, you know. Eventually,” Spike mumbled around the second glass of blood Bohdan had brought him from the casino restaurant. He was now sprawled on the floor of the cell, his head resting between two corners of the wall to keep it immobile.

“Of course,” Bohdan said soothingly, leaning against the open cell door, his face entirely bland and expressionless. “Just biding your time?”

“Righ’,” Spike said firmly, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Thanks an’ all that, though, yeah?” He raised his glass towards Bohdan in a lazy half-salute, shifting his shoulders to allow arm movement while keeping his head perfectly still. He had been careful not to move it any more than absolutely necessary.

Bohdan twitched his lips into a smile. “How bad are your injuries?”

It still hurt. Everywhere. But Spike could see now – well enough to function, anyway. He leaned forward gingerly, testing out his head for the first time. The worst of the dizziness was gone, but he could see afterimages whenever he moved. The pain was … not so bad as it had been, but still pretty bad. He pulled his flask out of his pocket and poured whiskey into his mouth, keeping his head perfectly level.

“Could fight. If I had to.”

Bohdan gave him a sceptical look, then threw a punch at Spike’s head. Spike jerked out of the way, but the effort was visible when it really shouldn’t have been.

Spike blinked the stars out of his vision and tried – unsuccessfully – not to groan.

“You’re still weak.”

They looked into each other’s eyes, evaluating.

“We gonna dance when this is done, Bohdan Kosík?”

Bohdan gave Spike a long look. “No,” he sighed. “Can you use a gun?”

“’Course,” Spike sniffed.

Bohdan looked sceptical. “Truly?”

“Don’ like ‘em, as a rule. Too much like cheatin’.” Spike grinned. “But for all that, know my way ‘round a shotgun. Can hit what I’m aiming at with a crossbow. Anything else … should be able to wing it.”

Bohdan breathed heavily out his nose, almost snorting, then reluctantly pulled out his gun, holding it towards Spike. “Take her until I return.” He didn’t think he’d be allowed to get close to Jenoff with a gun, and frankly the vampire needed the help.

He still didn’t like being apart from her – he felt naked now.

Spike reached for the gun. It looked like a machine gun made for midgets, or children.

Bohdan pulled it back. “It can be made semi- or fully automatic – here.” Bohdan gestured to the switch. “Second cartridge, at the front.” He demonstrated dropping one cartridge out and replacing it with the other. “Whatever you do, don’t let it be taken from you – you will truly die if one of these bullets pierces your heart.”

Spike raised both eyebrows. “What now?”

“They are my own design: lead with copper jacket, tipped with  _lignum vitae_  to work like a stake.” Bohdan grinned, wolfishly. “I find I need to cheat sometimes.” He let his face fall back to its usual grim seriousness, and pushed his gun back into Spike’s hands. “Now, tell me about where Jenoff stores the contracts.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Jenoff was back up in his pulpit when Bohdan found him.

Mini-Sunglasses materialised in front of the stairs before Bohdan could take a step.

“I have a business proposition,” Bohdan said.

“You packin’?”

“No.”

Mini-Sunglasses patted him down. “Honest, are you? Rare breed.” He jerked his head towards the stairs. “Off you go, then.”

Jenoff watched Bohdan approach, Mini-Sunglasses one step behind him. “I don’t know you,” Jenoff said.

“No,” Bohdan said.

“I don’t often come across humans I don’t recognise. You  _are_ human, aren’t you?”

Bohdan nodded.

“Name?”

“Bohdan Kosík.”

Jenoff looked past him to Mini-Sunglasses. “Check it.” The other demon nodded, and went back down the stairs. “You understand, no deal can be made until I am satisfied you are a … good investment.”

“Of course.” Bohdan inclined his head.

“Good. So. What can I do for you, Mr Kosík?”

“There is something I want.”

“I don’t traffic in wants.” Jenoff smiled, with the barest hint of warmth. It was one of his favourite lines.

“Something I  _need_ , if you prefer.” Bohdan smiled back, although it never reached his eyes.

“I might be able to assist with that,” Jenoff said.

They waited for several minutes, pretending to watch the crowd on the ground, but mostly watching each other.

Mini-Sunglasses reappeared below the pulpit. He shook his head from side to side, and pulled down twice on one earlobe.

It was obvious from Jenoff’s reaction that it was a sign: he cocked his head, staring at Bohdan with surprise. “Unfortunately, it appears you have nothing I want  _or_ need.” He smiled again, barely polite and entirely dismissive.

Bohdan’s brow creased in confusion. “I do not understand.”

“Your soul is spoken for,” Jenoff said, clearly annoyed.

Bohdan started swearing in his head. He had intended to keep his face implacable, bland, but something must have shown through the mask.

“You didn’t know, did you?” Jenoff laughed. “Well. That  _is_ unusual. She must be something else, whoever she is, for you to have given her your soul without even realising it.” Jenoff watched him continue trying to hide his anger, then, laughing again, clapped his hand around Bohdan’s shoulder. “Congratulations, by the way. I hear true love’s pretty special.”

“I am sorry we could not do business,” Bohdan said, carefully manoeuvring Jenoff’s hand from his shoulder and into a handshake. “I must find another way to meet my needs.”

Bohdan was grateful Jenoff had been so amused by his pain.

It provided an easy explanation for his adrenal responses while he was palming Jenoff’s ring.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“You were right. Ring’s the key,” Spike said, opening the lid of the invisible box.

They had managed to get back into the office – Bohdan going ahead to scout while Spike used his vampire speed and stillness to stay nearly invisible.

Both were thoroughly contemptuous of Jenoff’s lax security. It should never have been this easy.

The interior of the box was entirely visible but it was almost depressing in its dullness. No velvet lining or mystical mustiness. The contracts weren’t even rolled up like scrolls. It looked like the interior of any bog-standard office file box: there were colour-codes, everything was alphabetised, and although the contracts were on thick, expensive paper, it was the kind you could buy in any stationary store.

Spike flipped through quickly, looking for the name Anya had given him. “’S not here,” he said, after a few seconds.

“What?” Bohdan asked.

“Name the client gave. ‘S not here.”

“What was it?” Bohdan asked, moving in to look himself.

“Nicholas Doe.”

Bohdan flipped through the D’s for a few seconds, before he stopped, hands dropping to his sides. “ _Nikdo_?” he said, realisation dawning. “For fuck’s sake. You know what this means in my language?”

 _Nobody._ “Bugger,” Spike breathed. “This was a set-up.”

“Fuck!” yelled Bohdan, kicking at the desk. “This smells of Michal’s tricks. Even from beyond the grave….” He took several deep breaths, then turned to Spike. “Your client, did he ever communicate in person?”

“Don’ speak to clients. Who the buggerin’ fuck is Michael?”

“Later, I promise.” Bohdan looked around the office. “Is there anything left in your flask?”

Spike passed it over, still staring at Bohdan.

“Lighter?”

Spike passed him that, too.

Bohdan poured the contents of the flask over the contracts, then lifted a single one and lit it with the lighter. “This will not be for nothing.”

As they watched the contracts catch light, the acrid smoke of burnt plastic began to fill the room.

The box started pulsing again with its burglar alarm.

“Getting out alive was more’n enough for  _me_ , ta very much,” Spike grumbled. “An’ you’d best have a bloody good explanation when we’re through.”

Bohdan laughed, still staring at the fire. “It will change your life, what I have to say.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Constant hinting and no detail make for a very frustrated vampire.”

Bohdan frowned at him. “Do you take  _anything_ seriously?”

“Not so’s you’d notice, no,” Spike said, pulling his knife out of the floor, where it was keeping the office door wedged open. “Can we get the fuck out of here now?”

Bohdan got out his gun. As soon as they walked through the office door, they became visible to the waiting throng of demons and humans. Bohdan dusted or killed at least twenty in seconds with his first volley of gunfire. The rest fled or ran for cover.

Bohdan and Spike were able to walk straight into the lift without further difficulty. Although Spike had to admit the speed and power were impressive – not to mention the results – he could never really get into a fight if there was no blood involved. It just felt wrong.

Unfortunately, leaving survivors also meant allowing calls upstairs, so by the time the lift doors re-opened, Jenoff’s people had had time to prepare. The demons waiting for them either had tougher skin – impervious to Bohdan’s special bullets – or needed more than just a stake to be killed.

Spike moved to the fore now, armed with a knife in each hand and his superior strength.

At least that was the theory.

In practice, he was still weak, and punches that should have been debilitating were merely painful. But his decades of fighting experience had given him a certain creativity in convincing his opponents that they didn’t really  _want_ to fight him.

Bohdan was blown away by what he saw Spike doing. It was clear he had a near-encyclopaedic knowledge of every demon species they faced – or at least, of their anatomies. He knew not only what their weakest points were, but how to best exploit them in a fight. The vain ones lost marks of beauty like noses and lips; the ones with accessible genitals lost those; tendons were cut with a surgeon’s precision. He even disembowelled a few with nothing more than a flick of the wrist – and never in the obvious places. Spike invariably did whatever would hurt most, with the minimum of effort on his part.

He had made research into a martial art.

The gamblers still in the casino shared Bohdan’s awe, and those not involved in the fighting started crowding around the edges, running book on how many Spike would take out before he died.

Bohdan remained mostly uninjured – he was human, so no physical threat on his own, and his gun had been neutralised by the changes in species. He knew he was now an irritant at best. So he melted back into the sidelines with the non-combatants as soon as he could, and took surreptitious pot shots where he thought he might be able to help.

Bohdan had no doubt that he would have died in seconds had anyone actually  _wanted_  him dead.

Spike made it to about ten feet from the exit relatively quickly – even though it felt like hours. By this time, all but the most hardened of fighters had either died or faded back into the crowd, and the bookies had started taking bets on Spike surviving.

But the reduced numbers actually made things harder: spare attackers could no longer be used as shields or distractions. And a nearly-spent Spike was now going up against fresh,  _skilled_ fighters.

Spike was visibly fading. His vision had been getting steadily worse, which meant his aim was starting to suffer. Every wound from the first fight had been reopened – his weakened knee was even weaker and he knew one more kick would likely take it out completely. His hands and arms were slick with noxious demon blood, some of which was slowly burning through his skin.

Spike could pinpoint the moment when he lost higher brain function and started running on instinct alone. A particularly nasty M’Fashnik was pounding away at his already pulverised kidneys, while he was trying to use his forehead to break off the tusks of something roaring and hairy that he would have said was an Argethoth, had it not been for the truly awful halitosis.

He had stopped remembering what it was like to exist without the pain, and his world had narrowed down to reaching the exit.

The M’Fashnik pressed back into the crowd far enough for Bohdan to shoot him through the eye just as Spike finally ripped out the not-an-Argethoth’s tusks, leaving it screaming in pain on the floor. They made a last mad dash for the door.

To their mutual shock, no one stopped them, and they were able to run straight out into … the sunrise.

“Fuck!” screamed Spike as his face burst into flames.

Bohdan shook off his coat and threw it over Spike’s head. Half-supporting the vampire frantically batting at his head to put out the flames, Bohdan ran for his car.

As the watching demons realised Spike had somehow escaped being dusted by the sunlight, the ones that could ran after them.

Bohdan pulled out his shotgun and started shooting as he climbed into the driver’s seat. The shells were large enough to be threatening. He kept shooting out the window as he reversed out of the parking lot.

Spike huddled across the back seat under Bohdan’s coat. It sounded to Bohdan as if he were – “Are you  _giggling_?”

“Either that or cry like a baby,” Spike groaned hoarsely. He wondered whether his lips had burned off. “Gonna pass out in a minute.”

Bohdan shuddered. The giggling continued for a few more seconds, and then, thankfully, Spike did pass out. Bohdan did not even want to  _imagine_ how much pain he must be in right now.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

As Spike and Bohdan were speeding along the freeway back to Sunnydale, Dawn woke up, lying on the edge of her sister’s bed. She shifted around, shivering in her pyjamas, looking for Buffy.

“Hey,” Buffy said. She looked greyer in daylight. She was wide awake, sitting up against the headboard with her knees to her chest, swathed in covers.

“Didn’t sleep, huh?” Dawn mumbled.

“Not really,” Buffy said.  _I didn’t want to risk hurting you,_  is what she wanted to say.  _When I look at you, I remember holding a knife to your throat. I remember smothering you with a pillow over and over and over again. And I’m not sure which memories are real. You’re innocent and you don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve_ me _._ But the words stuck in her throat, despite them growing steadily louder inside her head.

Dawn must have sensed something was wrong, because she made a move to hug her. Buffy found herself flinching away – again – from her sister’s touch. It  _hurt_ , just the idea of physical contact with another person.

 _Didn’t hurt with Spike_ , a bitchy-sounding inner voice said.  _Spike’s not a person_ , Buffy shot back.

“Fine,” Dawn grumbled, slouching out of the bed, shoulders hunched in. “Be that way.”

Their family had never been a demonstrative one, and Dawn had never wanted or needed this kind of reassurance before. Buffy didn’t know how to deal with needy Dawn, tactile Dawn. Buffy suddenly remembered that heady time – before she’d jumped – when she was terrified that being the Slayer meant she’d lost the ability to love. It was almost funny to think of it, now. Just  _connecting_ with another person seemed so far beyond her capabilities. Her heart might beat, but she was dead inside.

_Buffy the Vampire Slayer is nothing but a reanimated corpse. Just like a vampire._

Buffy swallowed a laugh.

Dawn turned, staring at her. “Are you … laughing?” she asked.

Buffy’s stifled laugh became a stifled sob.  _It’s not your fault, Dawn. None of this is your fault. I’m all wrong inside. I came back_ wrong _._  Everything Buffy wanted to say just lay there inside her, writhing, the words etching themselves into her brain like acid. She wanted so desperately to show Dawn some affection.  _Something_. But she didn’t know how. It was like she was locked inside her body, and no matter what she knew she  _should_ do, she couldn’t make it happen.

Dawn stared into Buffy’s flat, responseless eyes, until she could feel tears pricking at her own. “I’m gonna get dressed and then … I’m going out. Probably all day.”  _If she doesn’t ask where I’m going, I don’t have to tell her. Bet she won’t even care enough to ask._

Buffy nodded, her relief all too obvious that Dawn wasn’t going to stay. “Make sure you’re home before dark.”

“Fine,” Dawn huffed, slipping out the door, too sad to slam it behind her.

Buffy considered trying to sleep again, but the prospect of waking the house up with her nightmares – again – held her back. She may have lost pieces of her memory and her sense of self, but she still had her pride.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn was asleep in Spike’s chair, under one of his leather coats when she heard noises coming from the lower level.

”Spike?” she called out.

When she received no answer, she opened the trap door, and started climbing down the ladder.

She saw Bohdan putting Spike down on the bed. Not recognising him, Dawn grabbed for the crossbow she knew lived behind the ladder, and pointed it at the intruder. “Let me see your hands. I have a crossbow aimed at your heart,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady.

Bohdan raised his hands above his head, and slowly turned towards her.

“Who are you?” Dawn asked coldly.

“I am a friend, helping out on a job.”

Dawn snorted. “Some help you were. Why isn’t he the one carrying  _you_ around?”

Bohdan shrugged. “I am human, and he’s a much better fighter.”

“How did you get in here?”

“He told me how.”

Dawn chanced a glance at Spike. He looked truly awful. “Spike!” she shouted. “Wake up! Is he telling the truth?”

Spike whimpered.

Dawn had been worried and anxious before, but now she was terrified. She’d never heard him make a noise that … feeble … before.

“Spike!” she shrieked. “Say something!”

“’S fine, Bit,” he croaked out. “Safe.”

Dawn dropped the crossbow and ran to the bed. Her knees gave out beneath her when she saw his burned and blistered face. Tears started streaming down her face.

“He needs blood, painkillers, and something for the burns,” Bohdan said. “Do you have those here?”

“Blood’s upstairs in the fridge,” Dawn said, her eyes locked on Spike’s face as her hands fluttered over his body, looking for a part of him that was safe to touch. “Dunno about the rest, but if he has it here, they’ll be in the first aid box under the sink.”

Bohdan left them and climbed up the ladder.

“It’s okay, Spike,” Dawn said, grasping his bloody hand in hers. “Everything’s okay now. I’m gonna take care of you.”  _He’s not dust. That’s the important thing. Vampires can heal_ anything _so long as they’re not dust._


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Giles *finally* polishes his glasses! And other long-awaited things_

Giles was drinking his first cup of tea and wishing Spike hadn’t ruined Weetabix for him. They were out of bread for toast, and the only other cereal in the cupboard was some god-awful sugary concoction with marshmallows in.

_I really must get back home._ He stared into his tea.  _Where is home now?_

He’d built a life for himself, back in Bath. It wasn’t perfect, but it was  _his_. For the first time in five years, he had control over his own life, his own priorities.

He had created a job that suited him, combining the purely academic follow-up to his experiences he’d always wanted to do, but had never had time for; the odd bit of teaching for trainee Watchers; and acting as liaison between the Council and a powerful coven in Devon.

More importantly, he had friends –  _adult_  friends – with whom he shared things that had nothing to do with slaying. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d  _seen_ , let alone eaten, junk food.

His five years in Sunnydale had been so  _intense_ – soul-soaring joys and heartbreaking sorrows. The break had been blissful.

_The break._  But Buffy being back changed everything. Didn’t it?

 

\------------------------------------------

 

It turned out that although Spike had no painkillers, he had  _a lot_  of stuff for burns. Like, a drug store’s worth. And there was nothing that hadn’t been opened.

Until now, Dawn had never really thought about the fact that Spike nonchalantly ran around in daylight with just a blanket for protection  _all the freaking time_.

_Stupid vampire._

_And everyone says_ Drusilla _is the batshit crazy one._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow woke up early feeling cold and lost. When she opened her eyes, she saw Tara huddled way over on the other side of the bed, as far away as she could get.

“Baby?” Willow whimpered. “Please stop punishing me. I  _love_ you.”

Tara rolled over and looked at the only person in the whole world who was  _hers_. Willow’s eyes were all puffy from crying and her nose was blotchy. Tara still thought she looked beautiful. And her heart ached because she knew Willow was hurting and it was in her power to comfort her.

“I’m not punishing you, Willow,” Tara said blearily, for what felt like the thousandth time. “You did something that scared me, and I needed a little space.”

“I-I’m sorry!” Willow wailed miserably. “I just wanted to make things better.” Then she started crying again.

“Oh, Sweetie.” Tara finally caved, moving across the bed, and wrapping herself around Willow, who was gratefully burrowing into her arms. “I know. I know you did,” Tara soothed. “But you have to let people make their own choices. Even if they’re bad or you don’t like them.  _Especially_ then.”

Willow cried herself out relatively quickly and went back to dozing, finally able to relax now that Tara was allowing physical contact again.

Tara lay in their bed, wide awake, stroking Willow’s hair, while she considered their situation. Ever since she’d gone along with Willow’s idea to put Dawn into trance, Tara had felt uncomfortable staying in the house – hypocritical and guilty. How could they continue to act as Dawn’s guardians after putting her in so much danger? Her conversation with Dawn yesterday had made her feel a bit better about that, but she suspected Willow still only felt guilt about Dawn  _finding out_ , not about what they’d done.

It didn’t help that Willow was feeling  _everything_  as a personal rejection right now – and becoming so defensive as a result, that it was impossible to talk to her about anything.

Tara worried that Willow’s unhappiness was becoming toxic.

So far, all she had done was make a phone call. But Tara knew her Willow: unhappy-Willow got easily consumed with  _fixing_ things, taking control of herself and her environment. For someone with Willow’s power and increasingly casual use of magic….

Tara was becoming convinced that she and Willow needed to leave Revello Drive – as soon as possible.

The problem with leaving  _now_ , though, was Buffy.  _There’s no way Buffy can handle bills and laundry and – oh goddess, Buffy’s_ cooking _!_  Dawn might starve to death if it was just her and Buffy in the house. Either that, or turn into a sumo wrestler from all the take-out.

Tara found herself wishing Spike was still there. It would make everything so much easier. And  _there_ was a majorly wigsome thought.  _When did Spike become so indispensible?_

_Then there’s the money._ Buffy would be losing eighteen hundred a month in rent with all three of them gone. That was a  _lot_.

Tara desperately wanted to talk through all of this with someone else – share the burden a little – but the only person she opened up to like that was Willow.

It all was such a mess.

Giving up on getting any more sleep that morning, Tara left the still-sleeping Willow in their bed, and padded downstairs in search of coffee.

Someone had opened the blackout blinds in the kitchen, and it felt weird seeing it bathed in morning sunshine again. She had almost forgotten what it looked like.

Giles was still there, drinking tea, and staring off into space.

“Morning,” Tara said, beginning to fuss with the coffeemaker.

Giles smiled vaguely, still lost in his own thoughts. Not wanting to appear rude, he forced himself to speak, asking, “How did you sleep?” before he caught himself.  _Bloody stupid question._ He really had no idea what to say to Tara. He didn’t think he’d ever even  _seen_ her without Willow before.

“Uh … not great,” Tara said, shrugging. “Kinda disrupted.”

Giles made a noise suspiciously like a harrumph, mostly from embarrassment. “Er, yes. Of course.” He took a deep breath and sighed into his tea.

“So are you gonna, um, stay now?” Tara asked, hesitantly. She had never really spoken to Mr Giles before, except in passing. “Sunnydale, I mean, not, you know, this house.”  _Although … maybe if_ he  _lived here…._

“I … I haven’t really had a chance to think about it yet….”

Tara was surprised, and she showed it. “Oh. I thought with Buffy back you would just….”

“I dropped everything to come here as soon as I could,” Giles said coldly.

“Of course!” Tara said, flushing with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean….”

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, I’m sorry. This is … it’s all a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

Tara nodded vigorously, her eyes open wide.

Giles looked over at her. “And almost impossible for you, I imagine.” His voice grew gentler. “How are you, really?”

“I’m coping,” Tara said. She squirmed a little, uncomfortable being the centre of attention. “It was hard, after you left. Y-you really hurt them – Willow and Xander. They weren’t ready to lose you, too.”

Giles sighed softly. “I expect I did hurt them, and I’m sorry for that.”  

He had a sudden moment of clarity. I _needed taking care of then, desperately, and there has never been anyone in Sunnydale to do that for me. There_ still _isn’t._

“I was in no fit state to take care of anyone else, then.” He smiled, ruefully. “I’m not sure that I am now. But I will do whatever I can.”

“Buffy’s …  _yours_ , isn’t she?” Tara said hesitantly. “Like family, I mean.” She had a flash of intuition about how devastated Giles must have been – Buffy had been his world, like Willow was hers.

 “Yes,” Giles said, surprised to hear Tara articulate it like that. “She is.”

Tara let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She’d found someone she could talk to. “Mr Giles? I think Willow and I need to move out.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike started talking again shortly after Dawn finally managed to get the second bag of blood into him.

“’Lo, Bite Sized,” he said softly.

“Spike!” she shrieked, throwing herself at him.

“Ow! Fuck!” he howled, before he could stop himself. Dawn scrambled back abruptly.

“Ribs?” she said.

“Yeah,” he grunted.

“Why is it they always seem to go for your ribs?”

Spike tried to laugh, but it quickly turned into an agonising coughing fit that left blood on his lips.

Dawn winced.

Spike could feel bone poking through one lung, and his head was not happy with the motion from coughing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on feeling the pillow in an effort to stop the spinning. “Dunno, pet. Reckon I’m jus’ lucky that way.”

“Does it hurt? Your face?” Dawn edged back towards him, tentatively.

“Nerves’re mostly dead there, so no.” He grimaced. “Pain’ll come as it heals.”

“What happened?”

“I was bloody stupid, ‘s what happened.” Spike sighed. Then winced. Breathing  _hurt_.

“What’s new there?” Dawn quipped.

Spike opened his eyes to glare at her. “Oi!”

Dawn’s face went serious. “How bad is it? Really?”

Spike shut his eyes again, gingerly prodding his torso and abdomen. He felt squelching. “Bad.”

Dawn clutched at his free hand.

“It’ll all heal, Bit. Promise. Just needs time.”

“And blood.”

Spike grinned. They both winced when his skin audibly crackled at the movement. “Really not lookin’ forward to regrowin’ those nerves,” Spike muttered. “Now give us that burn ointment. Gotta save my handsome face.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles got up to make another cup of tea, reeling slightly from his conversation with Tara about Willow. Part of him felt desperately sorry for her, and another part just wanted to throttle her.

“Um, there’s something else I think you should know,” Tara continued, hesitantly. “It’s about B-Buffy’s nightmares….” Tara really hoped she was doing the right thing.  _Whatever Spike had been doing, it was_ helping _. We couldn’t even get close enough to wake her up until after it was over._

Giles put down his cup, frowning. “What about them? Did something else happen last night?”

“N-not that I heard…. But I think she gets them every time she sleeps.”

“But that’s not … we’d have heard something—”

“Spike’s b-been with her. Until last night, when he wasn’t. I think that’s why it was so b-bad.”

Giles sat before his knees collapsed under him. “They – they’re  _sleeping_  together?” He tried to keep the horror out of his voice.

“No!” Tara said quickly. “I-I’m pretty sure they’re not, you know,  _sexy_ sleeping together.” Tara paused, trying desperately to ignore the fact he’d just said “sexy” to  _Mr Giles_. “I think Spike’s just b-been sitting in a chair while she sleeps….”

She remembered watching Spike scoop Buffy into his arms, how she’d clung to him.  _Maybe not always in the chair…._

“B-but I kinda sorta maybe think he should move b-back in,” Tara sped through the words, wincing in preparation for an explosion. As far as she knew, Giles  _hated_  Spike.

To her surprise, he just stared at her, mouth slightly open.

_This is it,_ Giles was thinking frantically.  _This is when I must decide whether or not to trust him._

Tara left Giles to his deliberations. It was getting late and she needed to get showered and dressed.  _Not running away. Nope._

She passed Willow on her way up the stairs. It was weird – she was fully dressed and coiffed, but Tara couldn’t remember hearing the shower. Or the hair dryer.

She put it down to the intensity of her conversation with Mr Giles, and, kissing Willow lightly, just continued upstairs to get ready for the day.

Willow continued on to the kitchen. “Hey,” she said carefully to Giles from the doorway.

Giles jerked out of his second reverie of the morning. He avoided eye contact, taking off his glasses and focussing entirely on polishing them while Willow got out a mug and filled it with coffee.

“You and I need to talk,” Giles said, finally looking up from his glasses.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Bohdan watched Dawn feeding Spike more blood – now laced with the liquid morphine he’d brought back – and wondered how it was that no one had ever noticed how very alike they were. To him, it was so obvious.

When Spike had finished the medicated blood, Dawn placed the empty mug on the floor and scooted back to sit against the headboard, her knee resting lightly on his shoulder, and his nearest hand grasped between both of hers.

“Dawn,” Bohdan said. It still felt odd to think of the Key as a  _person_ , with a name.

She looked up, startled. She’d almost forgotten he was there.

“Is your sister likely to be home this evening?”

“I guess so.” Dawn shrugged. “You know Buffy too?”

“By reputation only.” Bohdan paused. “There are some things I need to tell her.”

“’Bout bloody time,” Spike grumbled.

“The Watcher is still staying with you?”

Dawn nodded yes, feeling slightly creeped out now. This guy seemed to know a lot, for someone she’d never even heard of before today.

“Need Anya there, too,” Spike said.

“Why?” Bohdan asked, genuinely confused. “She’s human. Useless, no?”

Dawn sniggered.

Spike would have laughed, if he hadn’t known how much it would hurt. “Our Anyanka was a vengeance demon for more’n a millennium, but tha’s not the point. She needs to be there ‘cause  _she’s_ the one that speaks to the clients.”

“Ah,” Bohdan said. He frowned down at Spike. “Will you be mobile by nightfall?”

Spike growled at him.

Bohdan twitched his lips. Dawn thought he might be holding back a laugh. “You can’t raise your head or sit up without help.”

“Yes, I will sodding well be able to move by then,” Spike snapped.

“I believe you,” Bohdan said, raising his hands placatingly.

“Will someone please explain to me what the  _hell_ is going on?” Dawn asked, alternating glares between Spike and Bohdan.

“Mr Mysterious here has some big secret to reveal, an’ doesn’t want to tell it twice,” Spike said. Then he moaned a breathy “Oh, fuck,” arching his back slightly off the bed, and letting his eyes flutter shut.

“What’s wrong?” Dawn asked, voice high and panicky.

A goofy grin spread over Spike’s face as he sank back into the bed, eyes still closed. “Shhh, pet,” he murmured. “‘S just the morphine.”

Dawn relaxed.

Bohdan twitched his lips again, and went upstairs to wait.

“Gon’ sleep now,” Spike said, his words thick and slurred, as he let the drug suck him into unconsciousness.

“’Kay,” Dawn said, shifting lower in the bed, and curling herself around his arm. She wasn’t really tired, but she didn’t want to leave him. There was still a part of her that was terrified he might turn to dust if she blinked or looked away.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“But my spell wouldn’t have  _worked_ if she’d died by natural causes,” Willow said, fighting back the urge to stamp her foot.

“What?” Giles asked, incredulously.

“Osiris doesn’t intervene in mortal deaths. I can’t believe you didn’t know that!” Willow sneered.

Giles slumped in his chair. “If Buffy’s death wasn’t natural….”

“She  _must_ have been in some kind of hell dimension. You see? I  _had_ to rescue her.”

Giles felt his heart skip a beat. Almost five months of hell. And he’d done  _nothing_.

_Only…._

“Glory’s portal opened  _every_ dimension,” Giles said softly. “Just because Buffy didn’t die a natural death, doesn’t mean she went to a hell dimension. She could just as easily have been in – in the dimension without shrimp.”

“It was  _Glory_ ,” Willow scoffed. “It had to have been a hell dimension.” But for all her projected certainty, a tiny seed of doubt started to sprout routs.

“You didn’t  _check_. How hard would it have been, Willow? There are whole  _books_  of spells on how to find out where someone’s soul has gone after death. At least one of them is on a shelf in the Magic Box!”

“So maybe I should’ve checked!” Willow said. “But she’s back – it all worked! What can it matter  _now_?”

Giles took a deep breath and stopped himself – again – from grabbing Willow by the shoulders and shaking her. “Because if we are to help Buffy recover, we have to know what the problem is!”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy lay on her bed, listening to Giles and Willow fighting on the floor below. She couldn’t make out enough of the words to truly follow the argument, but she knew it was about her.

Her stomach ached from hunger, but the thought of going downstairs made her feel sick and anxious.

The weight of pretending to be fine just kept getting heavier.

_They’re all so worried about me._

_And I’m all_ wrong _._

She wanted to cry, but she didn’t have the energy for it anymore. So she just lay there, staring at the wall, waiting for time to pass and things to get better.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya was having a magnificent day.

She’d achieved four orgasms that morning, a personal best for a Saturday.

Then, as she was opening the Magic Box, the bank had called to tell her that thirty thousand dollars in cash had been deposited in the store account.

Just imagining the new balance made her seriously consider closing the store to run home for a quickie. But it was October, and the thought of losing pre-Halloween sales made her stay.

She wondered, very briefly, what had happened to change Spike’s mind last night. He had sounded a bit odd on the phone.  _Oh well. Not important compared to all that beautiful money!_

And as if all that wasn’t enough, the Halloween rush seemed to have started a week early, pushing her usual Saturday takings up by ten per cent.  _Before_  lunch!

When Dawn called to invite her and Xander over for dinner and a Scooby meeting, it just seemed fated. She and Xander could announce their engagement! A perfect ending to a perfect day.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles didn’t think he’d ever felt so drained just from a conversation. But at least he now knew everything Willow did about the resurrection spell.

He started going over his notes again.  _Fawn blood for Vino de Madre._

He shuddered, remembering Willow’s very reluctant description of how she’d got it. Infinitely preferable to sacrificing human virgins, but … she was tainted now. Susceptible to dark magic in a way she hadn’t been before. In conjunction with Tara’s concerns, that was very worrying indeed.

_Arabian for Scimitar Oryx horn. Pinecones – possibly wrong species? Feather – used goose in absence of clarification. No other significant substitutions._

_Green light – during the spell and after, when the dark magic manifested for balance. Why green? Osiris’ colours are green and black. Key is a green ball of energy. Coincidence?_

_Dark magic_ definitely  _gone now? Can we be sure of that?_

_Spell interrupted. Broken circle. Urn smashed. Mind and body_  not _treated separately in spell – so that much of it was all or nothing, at least. Girl and Slayer? Could be schism there? Or just reaction to trauma._

**_Not_ **_mortal death? But might be other reasons for Osiris to intervene. Powers That Be? Slayer? Key?_

It wasn’t enough. He needed a resurrection expert. And an Osiris expert. And someone who really understood how spells were affected by outside factors like Slayers and Keys and hellions.

He needed the Council and the Coven. He sighed. He was going to have to go back to England.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

On the way to Revello Drive, Bohdan promised himself he would never again doubt the recuperative abilities of vampires.

Spike had indeed been mobile by sunset. He looked truly awful, couldn’t bend without a great deal of pain, and his balance was shaky. But his injured knee was miraculously still taking his weight and his head had recovered enough for him to be able to make slow, smooth movements relatively pain-free.

He was also completely lucid. It seemed vampire metabolisms went through morphine rather faster than human ones.

Bohdan missed driving with an unconscious Spike – he was quieter and made fewer threats.

When they arrived, everyone was waiting for them in the living room. The two couples were squeezed onto the couch, with Giles in the single remaining armchair, and Buffy on a chair pulled in from the dining room.

Dawn had called the meeting, so no one had known what to expect. But they definitely hadn’t expected Spike with a layer of his face burnt off and some guy who’d bought an expensive necklace at the Magic Box a couple days ago.

Once the inevitable shocked-Scooby ruckus had died down a bit, Spike and Dawn moved further into the room, leaving Bohdan alone in the doorway.

“My name is Bohdan Kosík,” he started.

“But tha’s not important,” Spike mocked. “Or so he keeps sayin’.”

Dawn sniggered. Bohdan glared at them. “What I have to tell you relates to the Key.”

Total silence fell in the room. Buffy stood, gently moving Dawn into her vacated chair and repositioning herself between her and Bohdan. At the same time, Spike was sidling into position to block Bohdan from moving further into the room in their direction.

Bohdan saw them doing it, and smiled. “She has nothing to fear from me. I swear it.”

Neither one moved or relaxed.

“I will give you the simplest version that I can,” Bohdan continued. “Until seven years ago, I was a Knight of Byzantium. After I left, I was still connected to that world through friends among the monks in the Order of Dagon. Their Abbot, Michal, and Brother Radan – the man whose death you witnessed, Slayer – were my closest boyhood friends. Before the Beast had Michal killed, we got drunk one night, and he told me about how they made the Key human. The story he told me was a little bit different to the one he told Radan, and that Radan told you.”

“Different how?” Buffy asked.

Everyone was suddenly focussed on Buffy. She was poised to attack; her voice was clear and firm. It was the most normal they’d seen her since her return.

“Michal thought the Slayer would  _probably_ defeat the Beast, but he has never been one to put all his eggs in one basket. So when they made the human host for the Key—”

“In the room!” Dawn said, incensed.

“My apologies, Dawn,” Bohdan said seriously. “I have spent so long thinking of you as non-sentient, simply energy, it is … difficult … to change such patterns after so many years.”

“Try harder.”

Bohdan inclined his head toward her. “So when … Dawn … was given life, she was made from the two strongest warriors Michal could find.”

“ _Two!_ ” Giles interjected.

“Yes,” Bohdan continued. “Two. The Slayer, and the Slayer of Slayers. Her parents.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The metaphysics of Dawn_

Everyone in the room froze, shocked.

“But vampire sperm is dead,” Anya said, finally. “They  _can’t_  father children. That and the rapid refractory period are what make them such good orgas—”

“Enough, Ahn, with the vampire sex talk!” Xander said.

Buffy looked over at Spike. For once, she had absolutely no idea what he was thinking or feeling. His normally expressive face had shut down completely and he was statue-still.

“This  _has_ to be a joke, right?” Xander continued, looking around the room for agreement. “I mean … mommy Buffy? With daddy  _Spike_?” He laughed, slightly forced and high-pitched.

“ _I_  don’t see the humour,” Anya grumbled.

“C’mon, man,” Xander said to Bohdan, a smile firmly fixed on his face. “Spill. What’s the  _real_ story here?”

“I really am a former Knight of Byzantium,” Bohdan said slowly. “And the K-  _Dawn_ really was created magically from the essences of the Slayer and the Slayer of Slayers.”

“Nuh-uh,” Xander said, letting out a slightly hysterical giggle. “No way. Did Spike put you up to this? Are you a poker buddy or something?”

“It’s no joke,” Bohdan said. “ _Look_  at her. Can you not see them both in her face? The way she moves?”

They all looked. Seeing Buffy in Dawn’s features and mannerisms was familiar – normal. But Spike?

“Her  _eyes_ ,” Giles breathed.

Once they started looking, even Xander couldn’t un-see it. His smile froze into a grimace.

Dawn’s emotions were at war. The idea of Spike being her father was …  _so weird_ , but somehow almost comforting. It finally made sense of how safe she’d always felt with him, even when he was still actively trying to kill her sist—

Her brain shuddered to a halt.

The idea of Buffy as her mother was just  _gross_. They were only five years apart! And it felt like a betrayal of her  _real_ mother. She wasn’t  _Buffy’s_  little pumpkin belly.  _Buffy_ had never made her hot chocolate when she was upset.

_Well, she tried that one time … but she just destroyed the pot_.

Dawn felt like she was losing Joyce all over again. The beginning of tears began to prick at her eyes.

“What, precisely, does ‘essence’ mean in this context?” Giles asked, valiantly hoping that some practical information might make everything less … disturbing. “And why  _two_? We understood Dawn had been, er, made from Buffy  _alone_.”

“‘Essence’ because there was no physical joining,” Bohdan said. “Not even in a test tube.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “I don’t know the mechanics beyond that.”

There was an audible sigh of relief from Xander and Willow at the confirmed lack of sex and vampy fluids. The idea of Buffy and Spike  _together_  was just … beyond eww.

“And if Buffy’s essence had been the only source, Dawn would have been identical – a twin,” Bohdan continued. “A second was required for a new and separate person.”

“So … no one’s actually biologically related?” Willow said, slowly. “It’s just some wacky mystical connection?”

“I don’t think the correct terms exist,” Bohdan said, shrugging. “Dawn was never an embryo. She  _has_  no biological relations. She was created, fully formed, at the age of fourteen.”

The knot that had formed in Xander’s chest started to unravel. Spike and Dawn had a connection. He’d finally come to accept that in the past few days. So long as he knew that the whole “parent” thing was just magical jiggery-pokery—

_And oh!_  There’s  _that mental image I was trying to avoid. Dammit!_

As long as there had never been anything going on between Spike and Buffy … it almost made a weird sort of Hellmouth-y sense. They had always had that protect-Dawn-at-all-costs thing going on.  _Yeah. Freaksome as it is, if I don’t think too hard about how, it kinda feels right_.

Giles frowned. “If Dawn was made from a combination of Spike and Buffy, how was  _Buffy_  able to close Glory’s portal? We understood it to have worked only because she and Dawn had the same blood.”

Bohdan shrugged. “Vampires stop carrying their own blood when they’re turned. Perhaps there is something in that?”

“And DNA?” Giles asked, pulling his notebook out and beginning to write. “Clearly, Dawn is not Buffy’s identical twin…. But if their blood is identical….”

Bohdan shrugged helplessly. “I had hoped  _you_  might be able to answer these questions, Watcher. I’m only a soldier.”

Giles sighed.  _Back to the UK it is then. There’s no avoiding it now._

“There are home testing kits,” Willow said. “We could get one....” she trailed off as she registered identical death-glares from Buffy and Dawn. “Or, you know, not.”

“Does she have a belly button?” Anya asked. “Because if she never had an umbilical cord, she really shouldn’t.”

“Why, yes, Anya, I  _do_  have a belly button, thanks for asking,” Dawn said. “And I’m  _still in the room_!”

_And there goes that muscle jumping along her jaw._ Xander winced.  _Dawnie really_  is _part Spike._

“Does any of that truly matter?” Bohdan asked. He turned to Dawn. “You were created by  _magic_ , not science. Your appearance, your personality – everything that makes you who you are – it was all built from components of these two.” He gestured to Spike and Buffy. “You are  _theirs_ , as any child belongs to its parents.”

Willow shuddered. She just couldn’t wrap her brain around Buffy  _as Dawn’s mother_. It came with images of five-year-old Buffy giving birth and whole worlds of yuck! It wasn’t much better thinking of daddy-Spike. Even if it did sort of explain the totally wig-worthy way Joyce and Buffy and Dawn always seemed to keep accepting him…. The whole situation was just wrong, wrong, wrong! Dawn and Buffy were  _sisters_. And Spike was  _not_  part of their family!

“Buffy is  _not_  my mother,” Dawn said firmly. “She’s my sister!”

_She’s my mother! Slap! She’s my sister! Slap! She’s my mother AND my sister!_  Xander couldn’t help paraphrasing in his head.  _At least there’s no incest-y badness here. Small mercies. Gotta love ‘em._

“Those memories were … kinder,” Bohdan said gently.

Spike snorted.

Buffy suddenly realised that he was  _angry_ , and only barely containing it.

Spike  _hated_  being manipulated. And this was manipulation on an epic scale.

He had given up his old, human, desire for children – for family – so many years ago he could barely even remember it anymore. As Anya said, vampires  _couldn’t_ have children. As far as he was concerned, they  _shouldn’t_ , either: the notion of Darla or Dru being a mother made him physically sick. But now, to find that he had a  _daughter_  – truly  _his_ , no matter how she came into existence – and everyone’s memories had been fixed to ensure she had  _no connection to him at all_.

It was typical of the unending game of kick-the-Spike the world had been playing on him since the day he’d first set foot in Sunnyhell.

“Oh yeah,  _much_ kinder keepin’ me well out of everyone’s mem’ries,” he said bitterly. “Good enough to donate my ‘essence’, but only so long as no one ever knows about it.”

Bohdan turned to him. “I truly do not believe Michal intended it to remain a secret forever, and I understand this is not easy for you to hear. But it was necessary for Dawn to appear at the time she did. It was also necessary for her to be the age she was – young enough to be cared for, but old enough to understand what was happening.”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anythin’?” Spike growled, his eyes starting to flicker between blue and gold.

“Michal doubted a teenaged daughter would be readily accepted by a teenaged Slayer. Add a connection to you? With your … complex … relationship? The Beast was so close, the Slayer had to be  _immediately_  willing to do anything to protect the Key. A sister was the safest way.”

“Bollocks!” Spike spat. “The amount of mucking about he did with all our heads? He could’ve changed  _anythin’_.”

“What sort of childhood memories do you think she could have had with you as her acknowledged father?”

“Drusilla,” Giles said softly, “instead of Joyce.”

Spike flinched.

“Or would you take away her childhood entirely? Have had her begin her life at fourteen. For what? To save your pride?” Bohdan asked.

“He could’ve come up with somethin’,” Spike said in a more subdued tone.  _‘S not jus’ pride._  “Wasn’ right, keepin’ me out of it.”

“You think someone actively  _chose_ your memories?” Bohdan laughed. “Wrote out fourteen years of Dawn’s life and then implanted them all in one piece? It’s ridiculous to suppose such a thing could even be  _possible_.”

“How then?” Willow asked, leaning forward, fascinated. Tara looked at her sharply.

“The Order of Dagon worked a memory spell.” Bohdan paused; he seemed to be searching for words. “A little like a time machine? The spellcaster drops something into the past, and then everyone and everything in that time and place adjusts around it, filling in the detail themselves. The spell is a sort of matrix, connecting Dawn with the world, ensuring that as long as she lives, all of the memories remain consistent with one other. It becomes as if Dawn  _really was_ born in 1986, and all of you simply reacted to her presence.”

Willow was entranced by the idea of such a powerful spell, but only Tara caught the calculating look that flashed across her face.

Buffy felt unable to begin to even process the idea of Dawn as her daughter. She was still trying to get her head around dying for her and then nearly killing her.

She remembered being angry with Dawn about … about  _everything_. Being jealous and resentful of the easy, loving relationship she’d had with their mother, while Buffy only ever seemed to fight with her.

_No, not_   _our mother. Dawn’s_ grandmother _._

Buffy stared down at Dawn. She tried desperately to remember what it had felt like, loving  _so much_  that you could die for someone. Die  _happy_  and at peace. She knew she had felt that once, but she couldn’t reconnect to it. Her memory had a hole where soul-deep love had once been.

Spike felt his entire universe shifting beneath him. He didn’t trust magic. Never had. He had changed  _so much_  since Buffy had come into his life, and he’d always believed it had been on his terms – his  _choice_. But if he’d effectively been under a spell  _since 1986 for fuck’s sake_?

That dream – the one that had forced him to finally face his feelings for her – that was  _after_  Dawn’s arrival. Was it even his dream? Could the monks have dropped that into his memories too?

He’d fought loving Buffy.  _Fuck!_  He’d fought it with everything he had. Was any of it real? Had he been fighting against a spell? Was everything just so the monks could make sure he’d protect their precious Key?

All the times he’d risked his life for Dawn, it had been for someone else. First to keep Dru. Then for Buffy, because it would have destroyed her to lose …

_Our daughter._

The words felt like a brand on his brain – painful and permanent.

He had reached a sort of peace the last few months, putting Dawn first. Forcing himself to get out of bed – to feed – for her, when all he’d wanted to do was die. He’d started thinking of himself as a parent, and it felt  _so_   _right_. He’d finally stopped denying and fighting against his feelings. Was it all completely meaningless?

If he hadn’t truly chosen to follow his heart all those years, putting love first, he couldn’t be sure who he was anymore.

“Are all my sisterly feelings fake, then?” Buffy asked. “Mom thought Dawn was her daughter, so the spell made me all consistent?”

Every word made Dawn flinch like she’d been hit.

“No spell can force you to feel things against your nature, against your will,” Bohdan said.

Spike’s head snapped up.  _Still my choice. Still me._  He met Buffy’s wide, startled eyes.  _Love’s bitch, for better or worse._

There was something in his expression that struck Buffy as familiar. And then she remembered.

_That’s what it looks like!_ That’s  _how you look when you’d die for someone._

_I used to look like that. Full of love. Just like that._

Buffy’s gaze flickered down to Dawn, huddled in the chair. Spike’s eyes followed hers.  _He looks at both of us like that._  She reached out tentatively and brushed her fingers over Dawn’s shoulder. Dawn seemed to relax a little.

Willow was frowning. “But there are  _lots_ of spells that change emotions.”

“Only temporarily,” Anya said, witheringly.  _What kind of a witch is she? So ignorant!_ “You wouldn’t believe how many times I was called in because a love spell finally wore off.” She leaned forward to look past Xander to Willow. “Then again, maybe you would.”

“Ahn!” Xander said sharply.

“What?” Anya whined, pouting slightly. “Willow’s hardly innocent when it comes to playing with people’s emotions.”

“At least I never played with people’s entrails!” Willow snapped back.

“Let’s not have a repeat of the troll incident, hmm?” Giles said, feeling the beginning of a headache. “I don’t think Buffy can afford to replace any more furniture.”

“Troll incident?” Bohdan asked weakly.

“You don’t want to know,” Dawn said. “Trust me.”

Anya leaned back into the sofa, fully prepared to spend the rest of the evening sulking. It could not have been a more disappointing end to her day.

“Why’d they pick  _Spike_ , anyway?” Willow asked. “I mean, first of all, vampire and vampire slayer? That’s taking the whole ‘opposites attract’ thing a little too far if you ask me. Plus … if you’ve  _gotta_  pick a vampire, isn’t Angel, like, obvious-guy? He’s all about helping the helpless. He has a soul. He actually  _dated_  Buffy….”

Giles shuddered at the thought. Much as it pained him to admit to appreciating anything about Spike, he hated Angel so much more.

“Michal never spoke about that,” Bohdan said. “But I would think choosing a vampire is obvious. Mostly human appearance, strength to match a Slayer’s, and they are impervious to the Beast’s magic.”

“And it means good and evil are equally represented in the vessel,” Anya said thoughtfully. “So they don’t get knocked out of balance.”

“Why would that be important?” Giles asked.

Anya shrugged. “Hoffy always told us not to upset the balance when we were doing anything major. I assume he had a good reason.”

“But why  _Spike_?” Willow asked.

“Michal told me that if the Slayer fell, he was the next most powerful force for good.”

Spike burst out laughing, just as Willow very nearly jumped out of her seat to shout, “But he’s  _evil_!”

Spike’s laughter, predictably, quickly turned to violent coughing. Dawn, rolling her eyes, got up to help him keep from doubling over and re-injuring himself.

Bohdan sighed. “It wasn’t a joke.”

By the time Spike managed to get his coughing under control, he was in agony. Dawn pushed her shoulder under his armpit and put her arm around his waist to take some of his weight, while he pressed his head against the wall and closed his eyes in an effort to stop the spinning.

“But …  _evil_!” Willow repeated, more confused than angry now.

“I’m not sure I would describe Spike as evil, Willow,” Giles said slowly. “Not now.”

“I mean sure, he patrols. But only so he can keep killing things!” Willow continued, almost to herself.

“Moving in to look after Dawn isn’t exactly textbook evil,” Tara said gently.

“Angel never even patrolled,” Dawn said. “Just appeared, wrinkled his forehead, and left again.”

“Don’ make me laugh again, Bit,” Spike groaned.

“Personally, I would not risk having the demon who raised Acathla anywhere near a portal to hell dimensions,” Bohdan said. “As it is, this,” Bohdan pointed towards Spike with his chin, “was the vampire standing with the Slayer against the Beast at the time. The other was … out of the picture.”

“Angel leaves,” Buffy said quietly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

Spike slowly raised his head and opened his eyes, searching until his gaze locked with Buffy’s. Dawn felt a shiver run through him. He thought he saw something….

“Spike stays,” she continued.

There was a long, awkward silence in the room, as Buffy and Spike seemed to be carrying on a silent conversation. Finally, she tilted her head to one side and raised her chin.

It was not clear to those watching whether it was a challenge or an invitation.

“I don’t know what this is,” Buffy said finally, “but if you don’t mind staying….”

Dawn’s eyes lit up. “Does this mean you’re coming home?” she asked Spike.

“Yeah,” he said softly, finally breaking eye contact with Buffy to look down at Dawn. “Looks like.”

Tara found herself meeting Giles’ eyes. They shared a moment of guilty relief. Trusting Spike, while clearly not an ideal option, just kept being the easiest one.

“Wait, what?” Xander said, looking around. “I feel like I missed something.”

Anya sighed dreamily. “Buffy and Spike were fighting and now they’re not. It’s all very romantic.”

“Riiiiight,” Xander said slowly. He waited for a few seconds. “Can we eat now?”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Peaches and despair_

“I think Spike really needs to lie down now,” Dawn said pointedly to the occupants of the sofa.

They stared back at her blankly.

“ _Really_?” Dawn said, exasperated.

“What?” Anya asked. “Your persistent staring is making me uncomfortable.”

“Get off the sofa,” Dawn said flatly.

Spike was  _so tired_  of all this. He just wanted to sleep. He pushed himself off the wall, leaning heavily on Dawn, and turned to Bohdan, “Give a bloke a lift, mate?”

Tara stood up guiltily, pulling Willow with her. “G-g-go ahead, Spike.”

Anya huffed, but got up. Xander followed reluctantly.

“Ta,” Spike said, trying for snide, but mostly just sounding exhausted and in pain.

Dawn looked up at him, worried by his non-reaction. She helped him stumble to the sofa.

They heard the two couples going through to the kitchen, talking about ordering Chinese. Bohdan and Giles followed them.

Something had shifted with the group dynamics – it would never have occurred to any of them before to leave Spike alone in a room with Buffy and Dawn. But now? It came so naturally no one even noticed they were doing it.

Spike knelt in the centre of the sofa and slowly manoeuvred himself horizontal. It was obvious the movement cost him.

“I’ll get you more blood,” Dawn said. “Do you want morphine, too?”

“Please,” he said, shifting around against the cushion, trying to find a position for his head that meant his burns were touching as little as possible. The nerves had started coming back to life and it  _hurt_.

Dawn left for the kitchen.

Buffy came to sit on the floor next to him, leaning her head against the sofa arm and drawing her knees up against her chest. He couldn’t see her face, but he could see her hands, clasped around her knees.

“They look better,” he said, reaching out to touch her, but stopping himself just shy of actual contact. He wasn’t sure what to expect from her. She’d taken such a big step, publicly asking him to stay – bound to be a reaction once she’d had time to realise what she’d done.

“I guess,” she said, shrugging.

“Not gonna push, Love,” he said, finally. “No expectations.” He really didn’t think he could take a broken nose right now, not on top of everything else.

The silence grew. Not uncomfortable, but not entirely comfortable either.

Just as he started pulling his hand away, she took it in hers, twining her fingers with his.

Tension seeped out of his body in a long sigh. “Buffy, I—”

“Shhh,” she said, squeezing his hand.

She knew exactly what she wanted to say:  _I was talking about_ me _, yesterday. I’m scared and confused and you make me feel things I’m not ready for yet. The way you look at me … I forgot what it means. But I remember now. I_ know  _and it’s okay._  But the words were too heavy within her – she couldn’t lift them to her lips. She hoped that she wouldn’t need to say them for him to know. He saw so much she never wanted him to see. Surely he would see this too?

Dawn jerked to a halt in the doorway when she saw where Buffy was, what she was doing. “What, you care now?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“Bit—” Spike started.

“It’s okay,” Buffy said. She placed Spike’s hand back on the sofa, her fingers trailing up his arm as she let him go, letting her body brush casually against him when she got up.

His skin sang with every touch. He wanted so much to grab onto her and wrap himself in the scent of her skin, to feel her heat warming him. But he was tired and in pain and the sofa was too small for two.

“I’ll go,” Buffy said, her hand lingering in the air, almost but not quite still in contact. “You need to rest.”

She smiled at him then, not with her lips but with her  _eyes_  – and it was so much the more precious for it.

Dawn watched her out of the room, then flopped onto the floor, pulling Spike’s arm around her, scooting down until her head could rest against his shoulder.

“I hate her,” Dawn said petulantly, putting down the mug of morphine-laced blood and pushing the curly plastic straw into a position where Spike could reach it without needing to move.

“No you don’t,” Spike said, pulling lightly on her hair.

“Little miss ‘all my sisterly feelings are fake’? Puh-lease.”

“You know she didn’t mean it like that.”

“Maybe,” Dawn said, sounding tired and defeated. “Why are you defending her, anyway? I’ll bet she didn’t even apologise to you for yesterday.”

“My Sweet Bit,” he said. “So fierce.”

“Yeah, well.” She smiled weakly. “Guess I come by that honestly, Big Bad …  _Dad_.”

He ignored the surge of powerful emotions at being called  _that_. It was … too new, too unexpected. “All you Summers women are fierce, pet. Nothin’ to do with me.”  _Better she have Joyce. Far better than me._

“A-are we okay?” Dawn asked, voice suddenly smaller. “I mean, you were kinda … angry, before.”

“Never with you, Pigeon.” He reached over to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re  _mine_  an’ I’m  _yours_. ‘Til the end of the world. Tha’s what matters. The rest? Can take it or leave it. Your choice.”

Dawn stayed with Spike in companionable silence until he passed out, then went straight upstairs to barricade herself in her room. She didn’t want to spend any more time with them all staring at her, looking for signs of Spike. She especially wanted no more of their obvious disappointment when they found them.

_I miss you, Mom. So, so much._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The others had a pleasant dinner in bald denial. It could almost be described as cheerful.

When Buffy announced she was going to go patrol, Willow almost jumped out of her chair. “I’ll go with you!” she said excitedly.

“Hey, yeah,” Xander said, smiling. “I’m in. Be like old times.”

“Why would you willingly put yourself in danger like that?” Anya asked incredulously. “The last time you went on patrol, you were injured and we couldn’t play Backstr—”

“ _Ahn_!” Xander shouted, mortified.

“What?” Anya said. “Buffy’s back now! I don’t understand why you want to take unnecessary risks.”

“Well there’s no reason  _you_  have to come,” Willow said. “You can stay here, where it’s all safe.” She smiled encouragingly.

Anya looked at her consideringly. “I suppose.” She turned to Buffy, “You promise not to let Xander get hurt?”

Buffy nodded. “Cross my heart and hope to d—” She blanched. “Definitely too soon.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

After the patrol-bound had left, Giles and Tara found themselves momentarily alone in the kitchen.

“Tara, do vampires have auras?” Giles asked.

“I don’t know,” Tara said thoughtfully, a little surprised by the question.

“You don’t know?” Now Giles was surprised.

“They have no life force, no reflection … but they think and feel, so maybe?”

“You’ve never thought to look at Spike’s?”

“Well, it’s not like we see each other much. I mean, he’s usually asleep when we get up, and then he goes out to patrol pretty much as soon as we walk in the door….”

“You mean it’s  _only_ been  _Spike_  patrolling? All this time?” Giles goggled. “I don’t understand. Willow and Xander  _always_  carried on Buffy’s patrol before, when she was  … unavailable.”

“It was … different this time,” Tara said. “Someone had to stay home with Dawn at night. Willow and I had full-time classes. Xander had the summer construction rush. Anya had to do all the Magic Box stuff on her own. Plus we were trying to find a way to bring Buffy back. When we realised Spike was  _already_  patrolling … it just seemed easier to let him keep going on his own. And I mean, really? He’s stronger than any of us, knows more about demons. He’s …  _better_  at it, than we could ever be.”

“But it’s—”

“I know,” Tara said, guiltily.

“A vampire taking over the duties of the Slayer? It’s just  _wrong_.”

“It does kinda make your brain hurt.”

“As you say….”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Who was the client, Anya?” Bohdan asked, as soon as they were alone in the dining room.

“What client?” Anya said shiftily. “I have no clients.” She plastered on her biggest, stupidest grin and batted her eyelashes.

“I was at Jenoff’s last night,” Bohdan said. “With him.”

“Oh,” Anya said, dropping the coquetry.

“It was a set-up.”

“ _What?!_ ”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“It would make everything so much easier if I felt sure I could  _trust_  him,” Giles said, frustrated.

“I know what you mean,” Tara said. “He just keeps being  _there_  when we really need someone. The path of least resistance.”

“That doesn’t make it right to use him. In fact, quite the opposite.”

“He’s Dawnie’s  _father_. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

“Don’t remind me,” Giles said, shuddering.

“Doesn’t that make him, like, your son-in-law? Or something?”

“I need a drink,” Giles said, feeling the earlier incipient headache returning.

Tara giggled. “Don’t get jet lagged.”

Giles sighed. “Maybe I’ll just go to bed. It’s been a very long day.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“We. Got. Paid,” Anya said. “Do you need a diagram to understand?” She glared at Bohdan. “And I am  _not_  giving the money back.”

“I’m not suggesting you give the money back!” Bohdan said quickly.

“Good.”

“It just – it doesn’t make any sense.”

“You destroyed all the contracts in the box?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe his contract was there, but he didn’t want us to know his real name for some perfectly inane rich-person reason.”

“Perhaps. But how could he know we’d destroy all the contracts?”

Anya shrugged. “I think you’re reading far too much into this.”

“And why pick  _nikdo_  as a pseudonym?”

“Because it sounds like a real name,” Anya said slowly, as if speaking to a child.

“Perhaps,” Bohdan said thoughtfully. “But we need to know, one way or the other.”

Anya nodded, frowning. “Everything was by email. Willow might be able to trace it back to its source. But really, I’m sure we’ll discover that it was someone like Donald Trump and he just didn’t want us to know who he was.”

Bohdan rubbed at his face. “It’s late. We can talk more about this another day.”

He was a little surprised that no one had asked him  _why_  he had told them about Dawn’s parentage – or why  _now_. He was even more surprised that it had been the Slayer’s friends who seemed to have taken the news the hardest. He had always thought the biggest resistance would come from the vampire.

But then again, Spike was a very strange vampire.

He made his farewells, and started back to his motel to sleep

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“When I said it’d be just like old times,” Xander called out wheezily, jumping over a gravestone, and only just avoiding the vampire lunging for his neck, “I didn’t think we’d be going back to me being the  _bait_!” His voice was getting higher pitched with every word, erupting into a shrill squeak at the end.

He could hear Willow’s projected giggles echoing in his head as Buffy threw a stake into the vampire, covering Xander in a film of dust.

Buffy managed a weak smile. “But your girlish screams are so attractive – to vampires.”

“Thanks, Buff. Really.”

Willow hadn’t felt so happy in months. It was just her and Buffy and Xander, on patrol. And she was helping! No more liability-girl. Her new ball-of-sun spell had taken out almost as many vampires as Buffy, and her ability to speak inside their heads meant Xander ran much less risk being bait than back in the day, when it was all with the running and the screaming and the never quite knowing if you’d get there in time.

Buffy was a little on the quiet side, but hey, not even out of hell a week! And they were  _together_ , which was the most important thing, as far as Willow was concerned. The three of them, against the monsters.

She felt like she was walking on air all the way home.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya was spitting mad by the time they returned from patrol. They’d been gone  _hours_. She was exhausted and  _so bored_ of talking to Tara. She knew  _nothing_  about money. Or penises. Or torture. And really, what else was there?

_Gods! Why has no one replaced the television yet?_

And Xander  _still_  hadn’t told anyone about their engagement. There had been a moment at dinner, when she’d thought he was going to … but no. His “announcement” was that he was full. And about to burp.

She’d been so unsure about getting engaged in the first place – convinced it was just an I’m-about-to-die thing on Xander’s part. But with his words, and his kisses, and his face! He’d made her  _believe_! But now all he did was say, “The time isn’t right yet, Anya. Be patient”.  _Pfft!_  She was beginning to wish she’d never said yes.

Xander knew as soon as he saw her face:  _imminent meltdown in ten, nine, eight…._  He grabbed her arm, half-dragging her towards the door. “Let’s go home, Anya. I bet everyone’s really tired. Bye everyone!”

Buffy and Willow watched them go, confused.

“I think Anya wanted to go home an hour ago,” Tara said. “Well, actually I  _know_ she did, because that’s all she’s talked about for the last hour.”

Willow snickered as she moved to put her arms around her girlfriend.

“Anything exciting happen?” Tara asked, nuzzling Willow’s neck.

As Willow started to describe their evening, Buffy zoned out. She’d hoped the slaying would take some of the edge off of having to act normal, but Willow just kept  _helping_. And nifty as that mini-sun was, it meant she’d barely been able to break a sweat. The effort of having to be around other people for so long had exhausted her.

She wandered out of the kitchen and into the living room. All the lights were still on, and Spike looked … dead.

Which wasn’t exactly a surprise, but she wasn’t used to seeing him so  _still_. Even asleep, he twitched and moved and breathed.

Buffy took the throw off the back of the sofa and draped it over him. Then she turned off the lights and went upstairs so she could lie in bed and try very hard not to have more nightmares.

She wasn’t hopeful.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Willow,” Tara said.

“Yeah, Baby?”

“Do you think, maybe, we should move back onto campus?”

Willow frowned. “Why would we do that?”

“Well,” Tara said gently. “We only moved in because Buffy was … gone. She’s back now.”

“And she needs us more than ever!” Willow said. “How can we leave her? Especially with  _Spike_  back in the house. Just because he has some ‘magical connection’ with Dawn….”

Tara gave up on hinting. “Yesterday you called Angel to create a crisis so you could comfort Buffy. That’s not healthy.”

“I  _told_  you I didn’t think she’d get hurt!” Willow whined. “And I thought you were done punishing me for that.”

“Willow, I was never punishing you!”  _How many times do I have to say this?_  “And you b-b-bought ice cream! How can you say you didn’t plan for her to get hurt?”

“I conjured it  _after_  I offered it!”

“You’re over-using magic.”

“What?” Willow was baffled. “No, I’m not.”

“For  _ice cream_? The grocery store was still open. And you could have asked me to buy it if you didn’t want to leave Buffy alone.”

Willow shrugged. “It was quicker my way. And it’s not like it hurt anyone.”

“What if something had gone wrong?”

“It was  _ice cream_.” Willow said incredulously. “And nothing went wrong! Why are you being like this?”

“This isn’t about me. You’re taking unnecessary risks, Willow. With Dawn. With Buffy. You’re trying to control things and you need to stop and think about what you’re doing. We’re getting worried about you.”

“ _We_?” Willow’s voice suddenly got very, very calm. “Who’s  _we_?”

Tara felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. “M-me and Mr Giles.”

“You talked to him about me?” Willow’s eyes went cold and flat. “Behind my  _back_?”

“You’re scaring me, Willow,” Tara said. “I love you, but what you’re doing … you need to get out of this house.”

“So you’re taking his side now? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

“What do you want me to do? Just sit back and keep my mouth shut?”

“That’d be a good start.”

Tara reeled back as if she’d been hit. “If I didn’t love you so damn much, I would.”

“Tara, Baby, I’m so sorry,” Willow said, all the anger leeching out of her at the look of pain on Tara’s face.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Tara….”

Tara waved her off, and went upstairs. After a second, Willow followed her.

Tara was in their bedroom, and she’d shut the door behind her. Willow put her hand to the door. It had never been closed to her before. Not when Tara was on the other side.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Willow said, begging, through the door.

To her great relief, Tara opened it to her. There was still hope.

“It’s not that easy,” Tara said.

Tara’s face was supposed to be  _soft_ , not hard. Not like this.  _Wrong! All wrong!_

“What do you want me to do? Reverse time and take it back?” Willow laughed nervously. “‘Cause I might be able to if I….” she trailed off, as Tara turned her back on her, walking away from the doorway, and beginning to change into pyjamas.

Another first: she’d never hidden her body from Willow before. It was one of the things Willow was proudest of, that this shy woman who usually wilted under attention,  _blossomed_  when they were together. But Tara was hiding again.  _From me. She’s hiding from_ me _._

“Joke,” Willow said, forcing a smile when she wanted to cry and beg and scream. “Don't think I could really—”

“Can we not do this now? I'm tired.” Tara sounded so  _cold_. She wasn’t even looking at her anymore.

_Not hiding, after all._

Willow felt a pit of dread and fear opening up inside her. “Okay,” she said weakly.

Tara was  _hers_. She was her best friend and her confidante and her safe place in a world that made her feel small and weak. She made everything better – more manageable, even at its most overwhelming.

Tara slid into bed, not moving any further than the very edge of her side.

_She’s turning away from me, away from us._

Willow didn’t think she could handle another night lying next to Tara, being punished, not allowed to touch her, to feel surrounded by her love and comfort. Tears pricked at her eyes. She fluttered around the room getting ready for bed, when she saw something that made her pause.

_Lethe’s bramble._

She couldn’t turn back time, but she could do something almost as good.

_We can just forget about it._

She took the bag from the assorted herb box on their dresser, and pulled out a sprig. She held it in her hand, and whispered, “ _Obliviscere_.” It glowed faintly.

Willow climbed into bed, and Tara immediately rolled over to meet her, her arms sliding easily around her.

“Ooooh, you’re all cold,” Tara said. “Let me warm you up.”

“You’re not mad?” Willow said, pressing herself against Tara’s beautiful soft breasts, nuzzling into her neck.

“Mad? Why would I be mad?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

_‘What will_  your  _mummy sing, precious one?’ Dru crooned, nuzzling into the baby’s belly._

_‘She’s not yours!’ Darla snarled, reaching for the baby._

_‘But I’m hungry!’ whined Dru, dancing away, and dropping into petulant game face._

_The baby started crying._

_‘Mummy won’t love you if you cry,’ Dru giggled, tapping it on the nose and tickling under its chin. ‘No blood for naughty babies.’ She sank her teeth into the baby’s femoral artery, and started suckling. ‘Peaches and despair.’ She hummed in contentment. ‘My favourite flavours.’_

_Darla turned away from Dru’s greedy slurping, an expression of disgust on her face. ‘Is she_ your  _child?’ she asked him accusingly._

Blink

_Dawn was crying, a gaping, bloody wound at her throat._

_He felt_ hungry _._

Blink

_‘Needs good moist earth to thrive,’ Dru said, slyly, holding the bloodless, lifeless baby out to him. ‘But everything I plant dies. Plant her for me? Make her thrive?’_

_He started backing away._

_Dru started crying. ‘But I have no one left to play with!’ she wailed. ‘_ I  _want to be Mummy!’_

Blink

_Darla was staring at him, her face contorted with a depth of pain he’d never believed her capable of feeling. ‘It burns,’ she said. ‘Get. It. Out!’_

Spike woke up, sweating.

Buffy was beside him, his hand clasped in hers, whispering, “It’s just a dream. It’s okay. You’re safe.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The morning after the night before_

Her hair fanned out across his chest, all golden and silky, as she lowered her head and sucked his nipple into her mouth, biting down almost hard enough to draw blood.

He arched into her, making a soft needy noise in the back of his throat.

She moved down his body, alternating biting and kissing, hurting and soothing, until she reached his cock. She gave it a slow, languorous lick along the vein, then sat back on his thighs, no longer touching, but still close enough that he could feel her radiating heat.

“Oh god.” His voice was desperate. “Don’t stop.”

She’d been teasing him for what felt like hours. His entire world had been reduced to a desperate need to come. He strained against the ropes securing him to the bed, not caring about the pain, just wanting to  _be in her_.

He knew she was far too far away, but he couldn’t keep himself from trying.

“Did I give you permission to speak?” she asked, a dangerous edge to her voice

He shook his head no, anxious to please.

“Then I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet,” she singsonged. She pulled out the cock ring and dragged it into place _so agonisingly slowly_. The friction zinged through him like electricity, forcing gasps and moans from his throat no matter how hard he tried to stay quiet.

She smiled down at him as she cinched it closed – just a hairsbreadth tighter than was comfortable – earning a truly piteous whimper. “Now, let’s see how many orgasms you can give me.”

As Anya finally climbed on top of him and sank down with a yip of pleasure, Xander used the last of his dwindling higher brain function to consider that they should really have knock-down screaming fights more often.

The makeup sex was  _soooo good_.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow woke up feeling warm and secure. Her head was on Tara’s shoulder, her face buried in the crook of her neck, and her knee flung over her hip. Tara was stroking her hair with one hand, while the other rested possessively on her bottom.

Willow hummed into Tara’s skin. “Best way to wake up. Ever.”

“Definitely,” Tara said.

Willow took a deep breath in.  _I’m home._  She nuzzled into Tara’s neck and slid her hand under her girlfriend’s pyjama top to start exploring her skin.

Then Tara’s belly let out an explosive gurgle, and they both collapsed into giggles.

“I think breakfast would be very much of the good,” Tara said.

“Breakfast in bed could be better,” Willow said, her fingers lazily stroking across Tara’s ribs, lightly brushing her knuckles against the bottom swell of her breasts. “I could whip up some … cream?” Willow grinned, “For fruit, of course.”

“That sounds delicious,” Tara said, licking her lips.

“Coffee too?” Willow asked, reluctantly sliding out of bed.

“Mmmm, perfect,” Tara said, stretching. She looked at Willow with such love she was almost glowing. “I’m so lucky to have found you.”

“Oh Tara,” Willow said, a dark shiver running through her. “I’d be lost without you.”

Willow padded downstairs and into the kitchen. She put water and coffee in the machine and switched it on, then started cutting up fruit. The early morning sun was streaming through the windows and birds were tweeting. Tara was upstairs, warm and loving and waiting.  _Perfect_.

Willow put two bowls of fruit, a pot of yoghurt and a can of Reddi Whip on a tray. She was momentarily confused when she couldn’t find Tara’s favourite mug in the cupboard or the dishwasher, but then she remembered that she had been drinking tea just before the Scooby meeting last night.  _Probably still in the living room._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander woke up feeling sore in all the very best places. He loved Sunday mornings. It was the only day of the week they could  _both_  sleep in.

He looked down at Anya nestled against his chest, making snuffling sounds in her sleep, a tiny bit of drool hanging out of the corner of her mouth. A swell of love swept through him.

He knew the waiting was killing her by inches. She’d certainly told him so enough times. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, but he didn’t see what he could do about it. It wouldn’t be  _right_  to announce their engagement now.

But Anya only cared about him and the Magic Box – well, the  _money_  in the Magic Box, anyway. It frustrated him when she made it obvious how little she cared for everything and everyone else. I mean, who else but Anya would  _ever_  have thought it would be okay to announce their engagement right after finding out that Buffy and Spike were Dawn’s parents?

At the same time, he was in awe of the immensity of her love. He’d never mattered so much to  _anyone_  before. And here was this beautiful, intelligent, experienced woman – who could do things to him with her body he suspected might be illegal in some states – and all she wanted was to spend the rest of her life with  _him_ , Xander Harris. It was heady stuff.

But it also terrified him, because he had never been able to understand  _why_. He knew he wasn’t special. He was average looking, not that smart,  _painfully_  young compared to her. The best part of him – the part he was most proud of – came from being part of the Scoobies. Take that away, and what was he?

And Anya never seemed to see that. She complained that he was fixated on Buffy. She  _still_  got jealous of Willow sometimes – Tara notwithstanding. She only barely tolerated Dawn. He thought she might actually like Giles, but that could just be part of the money thing.

He didn’t want to hurt her. But he was terrified that, some day, he would. Badly. He just hoped “some day” was really far away.

But in the meantime….

He nuzzled her hair and she made That Throaty Noise and all the blood rushed from Xander’s big brain to his little one in a near-Pavlovian response.

So long as their bodies were talking, nothing else seemed that important anymore.

_Couple more hours of this, she’ll be_ fine  _that I’m gonna spend the rest of the day building Buffy a new coffee table. Totally –“_ Oh god yes, right there!” _– totally fine._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Two steps into the living room, Willow saw them on the sofa. Together. And all of the air rushed out of her body in a great big whoosh.

Spike was half-sitting, half-lying, propped up on a mound of cushions, and Buffy was curled up on top of him. Only her head and the top of his (bare!) shoulders were visible above the blanket covering them, and they were both fast asleep.

Spike’s shirt was on the floor and it looked disturbingly post-coital, if your mind was inclined to lurk in that particular gutter.

Willow’s was.

“Buffy!” Willow cried, almost shouting.

Buffy wrinkled up her face in an effort to convince her eyes to open. “Hey, Will,” she said, her voice thick with sleep. She raised her head, shifting her weight, eliciting a hiss of pain from Spike. She murmured a quick “Sorry,” into his chest, then shifted around a bit more, trying harder to keep off his abdomen. “Where’s the fire?”

Spike grunted and readjusted his hold on her, but didn’t wake up.

Willow still couldn’t tell whether they were wearing any clothes under the blanket.

“Oh my god, you’re having  _sex_  with  _Spike_?!” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

Buffy sat up abruptly.

Simultaneously, Spike jerked awake with a yowl of pain, and the blanket dropped to the floor, revealing Buffy’s full-sleeve pyjamas plus robe and Spike’s jeans.

“Is it morning already?” Buffy said brightly. “Gosh.”

_Here we go_ , Spike thought.  _Reaction time._

Buffy scrambled off the sofa.

_And she’s off_.

Buffy fled the room, grabbing Willow’s arm and dragging her along to the kitchen.

Spike hooked the blanket up from the floor with his foot and draped it back over himself. It had already lost her warmth, but at least it still carried her scent. He shoved most of the cushions out from under him so he could lay flat again, and tried to go back to sleep.

He was fairly certain he didn’t want to overhear whatever Buffy was about to say.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Buffy, I just don’t get it,” Willow said, rubbing at her arm where Buffy’s fingers had gripped her. “I mean, ever since you’ve been … back … you’ve barely touched  _anyone_. Not me, not Dawnie. But now you’re all snuggly with  _Spike_?”

Buffy was a little thrown by the question.

This  _is the part Willow picks to wig at? That I’m not touchy-feely enough with her and Dawn?_

_And really, why does everyone keep assuming I’m having sex with Spike?_

_Okay, maybe that’s a dumb question._

“I thought you  _hated_  Spike,” Willow continued – completely unfazed by Buffy’s non-response. “He’s a serial killer in prison! He made an ooky stalker shrine to you. And he threatened to feed you to Drusilla! You disinvited him from the house when he told you he loved you!”

Buffy couldn’t really argue with any of that. She had hated Spike. And he might as well be the poster boy for immorality and carnage-fun.

“I mean, he kept trying to kill you!” Willow said. “ _For years_! And he only stopped because of the chip. How can you  _cuddle_  someone who tried to kill you?”

But the killing? That had always been mutual, as far as it went. And …  _natural_.

_Unlike what we’re_  currently  _feeling, which is unnatural and wrong at every level. Really, taking comfort from your sworn enemy is one of those things that should only happen on made-for-TV movies._

“And besides, what could you  _ever_  find to talk to him about?” Willow asked – clearly not expecting Buffy to answer.

_So far? Mostly how to survive the kind of memories you really wish you hadn’t survived._

_Plus he’s pretty good on weapons maintenance._

“He bought a robot that—”

Willow faltered, watching Buffy carefully for a reaction.

“Looks absolutely  _nothing_  like you and only helped convince the demon world that you were still alive through pure good luck.”

Buffy felt the beginnings of anger stirring.  _Skirt-girl._ Her eyes narrowed.  _I’d forgotten about that._

Willow nodded several times for good measure.

“Anyway, he’s sex-bot boy! Er, vampire. Ick!”

A frown of confusion suddenly appeared on Willow’s face. “Hey! You went to bed before us. What were you even doing downstairs?”

Buffy really didn’t want to remind Willow about her nightmares, or point out the traces of crying she was pretty sure were still visible on her face. Nor did she know how to defend the nebulous  _whatever_  between her and Spike. So she went on the offensive.

“Are you seriously asking me to justify my movements in my own home?” she asked coldly.

“No!” Willow said, thinking  _Yes!_  She turned pleading eyes to Buffy, her naked desperation painfully obvious.

Buffy was surprised to find how … ambivalent … she felt about Willow and her puppy dog eyes. She remembered caring very deeply about her – even thinking of her as family. But those memories were so far away it was almost like they belonged to a different person. Willow’s choice to rip her out of heaven was so much more … immediate.

“Good,” Buffy said, plastering on her now well-practiced fake grin. “Then I’m just gonna head back to bed for a bit. Kinda tired.” She forced herself to walk calmly out of the kitchen.

Willow stared after her, a little in shock. She wasn’t sure exactly what had just happened, but it felt suspiciously like Buffy was choosing Spike over her real,  _human_ , friends and family.

_I brought Buffy back. I rescued her from hell. I helped her patrol last night._

A moment of blind rage at the  _unfairness_  of it all swept through her, leaving her almost giddy in its wake.

But swift on the heels of rage came an almost crushing guilt, as Willow finally registered the bruised look to Buffy’s eyes and the slight hoarseness still lingering in her voice.

_Oh goddess, the nightmares! I never even asked…. We just let her go straight to bed last night. I should’ve offered to make sleepy tea! Or a sweet dreams spell. Or to just sit with her._

_Why didn’t Buffy_  say _anything?_

A small, quiet, voice inside her whispered that it was no wonder Buffy hadn’t said anything – that Willow had been so oblivious to Buffy’s needs since she’d brought her back that she no longer deserved her trust, let alone her friendship.

_I’m just gonna do whatever I can to make Buffy better. Whatever she needs. It has to be about_  Buffy  _now, not about me._

Feeling sick, Willow grabbed two nondescript mugs for coffee, and picked up the breakfast tray to take up to Tara.

Willow put on her resolve face. Things were going to change from here on in.  _She_  would change. And she’d do anything and everything she could to make Buffy better again.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

As Buffy crawled into bed, she found herself reaching for Spike.

She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Especially now she was remembering more about the day she’d discovered the existence of skirt-girl.  _God, how she’d wanted to dust him._

But then she’d seen  _that look_  in Spike’s eyes when he was lying, broken, in the crypt, and she’d had a terrible, awful idea.

If he loved her that much when he had no hope … what would he be willing to do with a little encouragement?

So she’d kissed him.

She gave him his crumb.

And then she’d made him promise the woman he loved that he’d protect Dawn.

Because she hadn’t just been willing to die to keep Dawn safe – she’d been willing to sacrifice him.

It was  _wrong_  what she was doing right now. Spike might love her, but she could never love him back. For one thing, she was becoming surer each day that she was no longer capable of feeling love. But even if she  _were_  capable, the Slayer could never be allowed to love a vampire. It just wasn't  _normal_.

So why had she gone to him last night? She’d heard him from her bedroom, and she’d just gone to him. She hadn’t been able to do that for Dawn, who was  _hers_ , and who needed her more. Why could she do it for Spike?

Buffy honestly didn’t know.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles was relieved to find the house silent again by the time he emerged from the basement. He hadn’t slept well, and he wanted a shower and some tea before speaking to anyone.

It was still quiet after he’d completed his ablutions and was back in the kitchen with his second cuppa.

The breakfast options had not improved any. With all the drama yesterday, no one had made it out to do the shopping.

He picked up the list from the fridge. It included a mixture of Willow’s, Tara’s, and Spike’s handwriting. It brought home to him, again, how much of a fixture the vampire was in the house. How they had all trusted him for months, had slept while he was awake with free roam in the house.

And Dawn truly loved him – that much was abundantly clear.

So what was it, exactly, that he was afraid Spike would  _do_?

There was no enemy of the moment for him to betray them to – although that could, of course, change.

He might well do something awful and violent if Drusilla returned, but until she did, that posed no imminent threat.

Giles found himself begrudgingly admitting that he could not come up with any  _specific_  dangers posed by Spike being in the house. There was just a general uneasiness, a sense of wrongness that a vampire could live in the home of  _his_  Slayer.

But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like the worst-case scenario was actually the emotional damage to Dawn  _were Spike to leave_.

And wasn’t that a bugger.

Giles tucked the shopping list into his pocket, and rang for a taxi to take him to the grocery store.

He would ask Tara to look at Spike’s aura when he got back. If she saw anything dangerous, he would reconsider, but for the moment, he thought he might just be able to bring himself to start trusting Spike.

_By all rights, this ought to be the first sign of an impending apocalypse._

Giles wrote a note explaining he’d gone to buy groceries on the fridge, and went outside to wait for the taxi.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn hovered next to the sofa, watching Spike sleep. His face looked better. It was still all red and blistery … but it wasn’t  _scary_  like it had been yesterday morning. You could see his face through the burns again.

“Tryin’ to get some kip here, Bit,” Spike rumbled, eyes still closed.

“I can see that, Spike. But I was thinking maybe we could have breakfast together? To celebrate you being home again?”

Spike opened his eyes and gingerly sat up, using the back of the sofa as leverage. It still hurt to bend. A lot. But it was no longer please-let-me-die-now pain.

“How’re you feeling?” Dawn asked, worried.

Spike shifted around, feeling himself out. “Better.” His stomach let out an audible growl. “Hungry.”

“Breakfast it is then,” Dawn said, relieved.

Spike levered himself into a standing position, wavering slightly. Dawn put her arm around his waist to keep him balanced.

_Still dizzy. Fuckin’ chip._

Knee hadn’t quite healed, but it should be fine after another good feed.

“Giles is gone. You can go to bed after, if you want. I’m gonna go hang out with Janice today.” Unspoken but understood was Dawn’s need to stay away from the staring for a little longer.

“You let her stop grovelling yet?”

“Pretty much.” Dawn grinned wickedly. “But I can still totally guilt her into doing anything I want.”

“Good girl,” Spike said, ruffling her hair.

The walked companionably, albeit quite slowly, through to the hallway.

As they approached the kitchen doorway, Spike stopped. The floor was streaked with sunlight from the kitchen windows.

“Blinds’re open,” he said.

The kitchen was the only room in the house that he  _needed_  to be sunlight-free, because the door to the basement always caught at least a little bit of direct light.

Spike sighed. He didn’t actually think anyone had done it purposefully to hurt him – wasn’t this lot’s style to set traps – but it was depressing to find that he only had to be gone a day before they forgot about him.

“Who would’ve done that?” Dawn asked, on the edge of panic.

“’Spect someone jus’ forgot to pull’em down in all the drama last night.”

Dawn relaxed.

Once Dawn had made the kitchen safe again for vampire kind, they started their usual catalogue of reasons why “that sugary shite” and blood, respectively, were the most disgusting possible breakfast foods known to man or demon.

As Spike finished the last of the blood in the house, Dawn giggled. “You realise Giles is probably out buying you more right now?”

Spike grinned. “Bet he’s hating every second of it.”

Dawn let out a huge sigh. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Me too, pet,” Spike said. “Me too.”

As soon as Dawn left, Spike went downstairs, where he was pleasantly surprised to find that Giles had remembered to swap the bedding around for him.

Once he’d manoeuvred himself into bed, he couldn’t stop shifting and fidgeting, trying and failing to get comfortable.

He finally realised it was because he was cold.

Full to bursting with blood, and he was  _cold_.

He shivered, not sure if it was the last few nights of basking in Buffy’s warmth or his dreams that were affecting him this way.

More’n twenty years since he’d even thought about Dru’s babies and it still gave him the screaming abdabs.

And Buffy had come to comfort him: a gift he’d never even hoped to receive.

Then she’d done the truly unthinkable, and actually started  _talking_  to him. Revealing her secrets. Trusting him with her fears.

When she told him about the voices that haunted her dreams – the ones that told her she didn’t belong here; this wasn’t her home; she’d only been brought back because she was convenient – he’d thought his heart would break. For her and for him.

He thought they’d both been crying by the time they finally fell asleep.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Jenoff stood on his balcony, watching the reconstruction of his casino.

He’d already lost a day’s takings from the closure. He was going to lose at least two more.

He’d lost his contracts.

He barely had a security force anymore. They’d all died or run away.

He wasn’t sure his reputation could survive this.

He’d  _lost_  his  _contracts_.

Mini-Sunglasses started tentatively up the stairs towards him. Jenoff had not spoken a word since the chipped vampire had escaped.

“You’ve been up here for hours, Boss. Can I … can I get you anything?”

There was a long silence. Jenoff’s hands tightened around the railing. Without turning, he finally spoke:

“Get me the Order of Taraka.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Spike and Buffy have an honest conversation (and the world doesn't end)_

Tara and Willow were in the kitchen when Giles returned with the shopping. Since he had no idea where anything was kept, he was grateful for their help putting everything away. However, the exercise was almost painfully awkward. He and Willow had only barely managed to be civil since their conversation about the resurrection spell yesterday, and he suspected it would not be … helpful … if he were to acknowledge his conversation with Tara. So they moved around each other in near-silence, communicating in monosyllables when necessary.

Giles found himself paying particular attention to Tara. She seemed …  _muted_ , somehow. Softer, quieter, and even more self-effacing than usual. Two days ago, he didn’t think he would have noticed a difference. But he’d seen a fierceness in her when they’d spoken yesterday, a subtle strength, when it came to safeguarding Willow’s happiness. And that seemed to have disappeared.

Her eyes tracked Willow’s every movement, like a child watching its mother in an unfamiliar environment. She was hiding physically, too, her hair hanging over her face instead of lying behind her ears.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore.

It worried him.

As Willow brushed past him to put away a box of pasta, he could almost feel ice in the air. How had it come to this? He could barely recognise the girl he’d met five years ago in the woman before him.

When Willow went upstairs to put away the bag of bathroom things, Giles turned immediately to Tara.

“Have you spoken to Willow about moving out?”

Tara gave a guilty start. “Not yet,” she said, twisting her fingers together.

“When we discussed it yesterday, you thought it couldn’t wait….”

“I was going to – after B-Buffy went to b-bed,” Tara said. “B-b-but … I didn’t.” Her face crinkled in confusion. “I don’t remember why, now.”

Giles frowned. “What do you remember about last night?” he asked, slightly more sharply than he’d intended.

Tara blushed. “Um, well, Willow told me about patrol, and then we … um….” She trailed off, blushing harder, a slightly dreamy look on her face.

“Right,” Giles said, his frown deepening.

Willow sauntered back into the room. “That everything?”

Tara nodded, smiling.

No,  _beaming_.

Tara had been so  _sure_  that Willow would hurt someone if she stayed much longer in the house.

But now she didn’t remember why she’d decided to wait to say something?

Something was off. Not natural.

And Giles had a horrible feeling Willow had something to do with it.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike was sitting in the kitchen, sipping on a mug of … something … when Buffy finally came downstairs a little after four. He was looking better, she thought.

“I didn’t think anyone was in here,” she said, eyes a bit too wide.

“Can leave, if you want,” he said, expression carefully neutral.

“N-no,” she said. “It’s okay.”

He tilted his head to one side, watching her keep perfectly still in the doorway while her heartbeat thrummed like a hummingbird’s. “You eaten today?”

She shook her head no.

“Sit,” he said, getting up and going over to the fridge. He was still wincing every time he bent.

Not quite knowing why, Buffy went to sit on his vacated stool.

She was surprised to find it cold.

_Vampire. Of course it’s cold_ , she chided herself. She glanced into his abandoned mug.

_Tea._   _He was drinking_ tea.

_Huh._

While Spike started chopping up vegetables at the counter, Buffy noticed an envelope with her name on it lying against the fruit bowl.

The script was precise cursive – old lady writing.

It was filled with hundred dollar bills. She didn’t think she’d ever even touched one before.

He’d obviously heard her opening the envelope, because without turning around, he said, “Back rent. Plus some extra for a new telly.”

She dropped the envelope back on the table like it was burning her fingers. “Did someone die for this money?”

“No.” He sounded resigned, more than hurt.

“Why should I believe you?”

“No need to. Ask Anya. She does my bookkeepin’.”

_Huh._  “Maybe I will then.”

“You do that,” he said.

She picked up the envelope again and started thumbing through the bills. Four thousand dollars. A flicker of covetousness ran through her, and for a split second, she thought about what a four thousand dollar shopping spree would be like.

But that thought disappeared almost as quickly as it had come – the money would all need to go on survival.

Spike poured oil into a pan and added the vegetables. After swirling them around for a few seconds, he left them to cook and started grating the cheese.

_Cheese. Cheese is … good._

“You could go shoppin’ tomorrow,” he said diffidently, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “Pick out a telly.”

“You think  _shopping_ will help?” she asked scornfully, more angry with herself for wanting it than with him for suggesting it.

“Never known you to turn down retail therapy,” he bit back.

“This is … bills money. Has to be.” She stroked through the money again.

“Most of it, yeah. But you deserve a treat. There’s enough for that.”

_I deserve…._  The words sounded wrong in her head. What she  _deserved_  was rest. For it to be over. Not this. Nothing here was what she  _deserved_.

Spike started cracking eggs into a bowl. It seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet kitchen.

He turned to face her while he whisked them, one hip resting against the counter.

She felt pinned in place by the intensity of his gaze, spread open, like he could see right through to the depths of her.

“Anticipation helps,” he said quietly. “If you can find somethin’ – anythin’ – to look forward to, it’ll help.”

“Like cheese,” she said.

His lips quirked into a smile. “Or a new pair of shoes?”

Her face darkened, the moment broken. “Stop  _managing_  me! I’m not crazy.”

He turned away from her again, silently continuing the preparation of her omelette.

He thought she would leave, then. Retreat to her room, away from the burden of being noticed.

But she didn’t.

He wished he wasn’t so sure it was apathy that made her stay.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles left for the Magic Box almost immediately after his conversation with Tara.

He remembered there being a book on memory spells somewhere in the restricted section, and he wanted to take a look at it.

It wasn’t there.

He thought it just possible he’d taken it back to Bath. But he didn’t think so.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike brushed lightly against Buffy’s shoulder when he went to collect her empty plate.

“Don’t touch me!” she said, shrugging off his arm and shunting her stool away.

“Christ!” Spike said, nearly dropping the plate. “The day you decide what you want….”

“You’re a thing. An evil disgusting thing.” Her voice was without inflection, like she was repeating a litany.

“You don’t really believe that anymore.”  _Do you?_

“It doesn’t matter whether I believe it. It’s  _true_.”

She was radiating tension, and he could hear real anguish in her voice.  _Ah,_  he thought. _We’re retreating again._  “I’ve changed,” he said gently. “You know I have.”

She snorted. “The last time you told me you’d changed, you knocked me out with a cattle prod and I woke up chained to the wall.”  _Evil vampire. Evil_  soulless _vampire. Bad. See how bad he is._

Spike grimaced. “Realise I shouldn’t’ve done that. Now.”

“Yeah, well,” she grumbled.  _Can you regret without a soul?_

Spike sighed. “Look, this  _really_  isn’t an excuse, yeah? But … Dru would’ve thought that was romantic –  _did_  think, in fact.”

Buffy gaped at him. “I have no response to that statement.”

“Look – balls! I dunno how to explain this…. Dru’s the only woman I’ve ever been with—”

Buffy coughed “Harmony!” into her fist.

Spike’s gentleness evaporated. “Oh for fuck’s sake! I may have been  _near_  Harmony from time to time, but I was never  _with_  her. And let’s say no more about it or I’ll start reminiscing about Mr I’ll-be-sure-an’-give-you-a-call-sometime.”

Buffy stiffened, her hackles rising. “You know what really  _stinks_?” she said. “Fungus demons.”

Spike glared.

“And you know what really makes me totally wanna vom from the slime?” She smiled sweetly. “Chaos demons.”

He let out a frustrated roar. “You can be a real bitch, you know that?”

He was about to stalk off back to the basement, when he realised she was  _fighting_  again.

Her previously dead eyes were sparkling with fire.

So he slipped into a stool on the opposite side of the breakfast bar.

Didn’t matter if she flayed him, he couldn’t walk away now. His Slayer was back.

“Least Dru never had to  _pay_  to play away,” he said.

He was rewarded with spots of colour appearing in her too-pale cheeks.

“So beautiful,” he said reverently, no longer able to hold back his joy at seeing her face animated by something other than pain. “Takes my breath away.”

Buffy pulled back, completely thrown by his change of direction.

“You know, you were a lot easier to understand when you were all creep-tastic stalker-guy.”

He scowled at her. “Not my soddin’ fault I never learned how to woo.”

“ _Woo_? Did you seriously just say ‘woo’?”

“What’s wrong with wooing?”

“This from the guy who  _stole my clothes_  for a shrine? Who thought it would be a great date to go on a pointless stake-out with a flask of  _bourbon_  and then take out a nest of vampires who couldn’t escape a wet paper bag?”

“I’d never been on a date before!” he said. “And I really thought they’d be more fun to kill,” he added grumpily.

Buffy stopped, shocked. Then she laughed.

She actually laughed.

It didn’t matter that it was meant as an insult.

She  _laughed_.

“You’re pathetic,” she said – with far less venom than Spike had expected.

Spike grinned at her.

“Didn’ need to  _date_  Dru,” he said. “She  _chose_ me, and I worshipped her five minutes after I met her.”

“You were  _dead_  five minutes after you met her!”

Spike scowled. “I’m tryin’ to apologise here!”

“You’re doing a really bad job!”

“Well I’m sorry! I was a git last year and I’d do anythin’ to take it back!”

They both stopped, then, a little shocked.

“Is a git like an asshole?” Buffy asked, finally.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding.

“Did you actually think I’d … I’d be like  _Drusilla_? That I’d  _like_  any of that stuff?”

Spike twisted his lips. “C’mon, Slayer. If that nest had posed half a challenge you’d’ve loved every minute of it.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Bourbon’s still gross.”

She was coming back to life.

He only just held himself back from grabbing her by the shoulders and dancing her around the room.

“I was … all over the place, back then. Tryin’ to change my nature. For you, I might add. Took a while for my instincts to catch up. If I’d stopped to think for five minutes, I don’t think I would’ve done it. Any of it.” He looked into her eyes, piercing and deep and uncomfortable.

“What, Drusilla made you do it?” she said.

He gave her what she’d long ago named The Look: the one that had practically lived on his face while he’d been tied up in Giles’ apartment. The one that said  _you are just too bloody stupid to live_.

“I’m saying I had to unlearn what Dru taught me. All her lessons involved pain in some way. Often hers. Oftener someone else’s. ‘S the way Angelus made her.” He laughed like it hurt. “ _Always_  involved my pain, though. I cut out so many pieces of myself for her….”

Buffy looked sick.

“Not literally, pet.” Spike paused. “Well, not all the time.”

“ _Really_  not helping.”

“She needed things most’d view as torture. Didn’t matter how much I wanted to give her … somethin’ softer. Gentler. Didn’ want it. Got her a necklace once. Great big fuck-off ruby in a beautiful settin’ – just her style.” Spike held out his hands to indicate the size of the stone. He dropped his hands. “Angelus brought her a human heart, still warm. Guess which one Dru preferred?”

Buffy leaned back, hugging her arms around herself. “Remind me what all this ancient history has to do with anything?”

“ _That_  was Valentine’s Day, 1998.” He scowled. "Hardly ancient history.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Think’ve still got the soddin’ thing lying around someplace.”

Buffy blanched. “The heart?”

Spike glared. “ _The necklace!_  For fuck’s sake….”

“So, what, it’s all good now?” she asked scathingly. “‘Cause you’ve changed to be all about holding hands and long walks on the beach?”

“I was  _always_  all about keepin’ my lady happy. I just … I forgot … for a while, how to make it more about the flowers than the hearts.”

Buffy shuddered. “That’s disgusting,” she snapped.

His face went serious. “It was whatever  _Dru_  wanted. Whether she was aware of it or not, I always gave her whatever she needed. Kept her happy. Kept her safe.”

Buffy shifted uncomfortably.

He gave Buffy a long look, finally deciding that now was as good a time as any to talk about his suspicions. “ _You_  oughtta know better’n anyone how well I took care of her.”

“Why? Because you offered to kill her for me once?”

It was risky, pushing this, but … he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get a second chance with her sitting down and actually willing to listen. “Because you used it against me. More than once.”

Buffy frowned, puzzled. “Ford’s feed-the-vampire cult, sure. And … Acathla?”

“Protecting Dawn,” he said, voice tight, totally focussed on her reaction.

Buffy’s heart caught in her throat. “No,” she breathed, her eyes telling him everything he needed to know.

He nodded, slowly. “I knew when you kissed me, what you were doin’.”

Buffy drew back like she’d been hit. “But – why did you-?”

He laughed, like breaking glass. “Because I love you.”

“That’s not an answer.” She was staring at him now like she’d never seen him before.

He gave her The Look again. “It’s the  _only_  answer.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles let himself in through the front door. He could hear voices in the kitchen, but not the words. Spike and … could be Buffy or Dawn.

He’d never thought about how similar their voices were until then.

He considered making his presence known, but Tara’s car was gone from its usual parking place, and he wasn’t sure if he’d get another chance to find out whether Willow had the missing book of memory spells.

He crept upstairs and knocked on their bedroom door – just in case – and went in when there was no answer.

Barely a minute later, Giles was sitting down on the edge of the bed,  _Mutatio et Creatio Memoriae_  clutched against his chest.

It wasn’t the only book from the restricted section that he found there.

Giles felt sick. He’d known for years that Willow was unusually powerful – re-ensouling Angelus  _should_  have taken at least three experienced practitioners, not a single novice. And he had always meant to introduce her to one of his contacts for proper training … but although it had always been important, it had never been  _urgent_.

It was urgent now.

_Is this my fault? If I had stayed…._

_If I had stayed, Buffy would still be dead._

No matter the cost, he couldn’t bring himself to wish that.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“ _Why_  did you fall in love with me?” Buffy asked petulantly.

The curiosity was new. She had accepted the truth of his love the night she’d rescued him from Glory. But she’d never had the time or energy to wonder why before.

“I mean, first you were obsessed with killing me, and then you were obsessed with  _annoying_  me, and then you were obsessed with … well, you know. What changed?” She paused. “And I swear I’ll break your nose if you give me that ‘feelings develop in the workplace’ crap again. Burns or no burns.”

Spike smiled proudly.  _My beautiful strong girl._

“What? Did you just go to bed one night hating me and then, boom! You woke up the next morning in love?”

He looked sheepish. “Pretty much.”

Buffy snorted. “That sounds like something Dawnie would—”

She stopped, terrified.

“I meant,” Buffy said hoarsely. “It’s teenage girl crush behaviour.”

He reached over and tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. She shivered, but didn’t push him away.

“Always loved watching you fight,” he said softly.

Buffy nodded. That made sense. She … liked … watching him fight, too.

“You come  _alive_  in a way that’s … it’s like you’re not really breathin’ until you’re moving. You  _dance_. It’s … joyous. Can’t help but want to cut in.” He smiled, seemingly lost in a memory. He turned dark eyes on her. “Like a moth to a flame.”

Buffy felt the beginnings of lust stirring up again. The way he  _looked_  at her sometimes, like she’d catch fire and burn out just from the heat in his eyes. She pulled back into her chair and folded her arms around herself, trying to raise a barrier against how he made her feel.

“ _Always_  knew we’d dance well together,” he said. “An’ I reckon you knew it too.”

She blushed.

He grinned.

“It was a revelation, when I got chipped and you took me in.” He tilted his head, a smile twitching across his lips. “Did you never realise how  _terrified_  I was?”

He laughed at her shocked expression.

“Bluster was the only thing keepin’ me from breakin’ down entirely.” He gave her a sidelong glance, and it made him look younger somehow.

Buffy suddenly wondered how he’d looked as a child.

“I followed my gut, wagered I’d be safe with you. And you … you  _should’ve_  staked me. So many times you should’ve staked me. But you forced your friends to take me in and you accepted my swagger – accepted I had a  _right_ to it – when I knew I had nothing. I  _was_  nothing.”

“But we … we chained you up. We insulted you. I think we even gagged you a couple times.”

Spike said nothing for a few seconds. “But you never tried to break me. You have any idea what went on in that mansion while I was in a wheelchair?”

Buffy shifted around uncomfortably. “We weren’t exactly all coffee-date-having back then.”

Spike stared at her for a long time, sifting through memories, trying to decide how much to tell her.

Buffy didn’t want to know. She’d listen, if he told her, but she’d had enough of his horror stories last night.

To her surprise, he seemed to somehow know that, because he said, “Let’s just say it was … worse.”

He saw Buffy relax and knew he’d read her right. She didn't need more of his past in her nightmares. “After I got chipped, I was angry and depressed and I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was forced to sit still and think for the first time in, fuck, probably decades!”

“Still not sure you can do it now,” Buffy grumbled.

“Oi, you. You’re the one wanted to hear this.”

Buffy mimed zipping her mouth shut.

“There’s always been heat between us,” he said.

Buffy drew breath as if to speak. He touched one finger to her lips.

“We’re having an unusually truthful conversation here, pet. Let’s not spoil it with lies.”

Buffy let the breath out as Spike slowly traced his finger along her bottom lip.

She suppressed the urge to grab onto it with her teeth, and suck it into her mouth.

He drew away from her, and captured one of her hands in his, rubbing it with his thumb in slow, lulling strokes.

“You have any idea how beautiful you are when you’re angry?”

Buffy’s eyes widened.

“So  _powerful_. All glittering eyes and heaving chest. Almost as good as watching you fight.”

Buffy glared at him, trying to pull away.

“Ah-ah,” he said, holding tight to her hand with both of his. “I’m tellin’ you why I love you.”

“You’re insane. You know that, right?”

He smiled. She’d stopped trying to take her hand back.

“Coming up with ways to brass you off kept me goin’ through what I still reckon was the worst time of my life. Was the only thing I had to look forward to.”

“The worst time of your life?  _Seriously_?”

“I  _fight_. ‘S what I do, who I am. When I thought I couldn’t? What else had I got to live for? Was a bit better when I knew I could kill demons. But …” A visible shiver went through him. “All of soddin’ demon-kind was out to get me, so I could only go to all human joints if I wanted to come out conscious with all my teeth. But if I did that, dealin’ with all the accidental bumps and shoves gave me a two-day migraine. It limited my social interaction some. I don’t … function … well when I’m alone.”

“Why were all the demons out to get you?” Buffy asked, puzzled.

“Most demons hate vamps anyway – half-breeds – but I was out killing ‘em every night. Made me a traitor. Was hot gossip for a long time, so of course everyone an’ his brother wanted to be the one to dust me. Finally killed or hurt enough of ‘em they stopped coming. ‘M a better fighter for it, but … let’s just say my quiet drinks are quieter now than ever they used to be.”

“So … falling in love with me was like Stockholm syndrome?”

He glared at her. “When you  _were_  my soddin’ jailor, I wanted to eat you, not shag you.” He paused, considering. “Well, both, if I’m honest. But the eatin’ was definitely the most important bit.”

Buffy snatched her hand away from his, glaring.

“You are  _gorgeous_  when you glare,” he said reverently, winking.

“Be serious,” she said. “You can’t have just woken up one morning loving me.”

“Thought you believed in love at first sight.” His voice hardened. “Wasn’t that the theme tune to the Buffy and Angel Show?”

He expected her to get even angrier, then – he’d mostly only said it to get a rise out of her.

Her quiet resignation was … discomfiting.

“I’m not sure that was ever real love.”

Spike’s mouth actually dropped open.

“Nice guppy face,” she said drily.

Spike’s mouth snapped shut.

“I remembered something on Friday. Something Angel did a couple years ago. He had the chance to be human – Mohra demon blood – and … the Oracles? … someone, anyway, told him he couldn’t – ” her resolve not to get emotional broke with her voice, “ _protect_  me if he was human. So he took the day back. He said he did it because he finally realised how much he loved me.” Buffy started clenching and unclenching her hands. “It was … that day was everything I’d ever wanted. A chance to be  _normal_.”

Buffy very carefully unclenched her hands, spreading them out on the table and staring at them. Her nails had almost all grown in now, and there were only faint traces left of healing cuts and bruises.

“I remember thinking, then, when he told me what he’d done, that maybe he was right, and that it was time for me to give up on a normal life. But he … he took that away. He took away my knowledge, my  _choice_. And I came home desperate to get back that feeling of peace – of normalcy. Because I remembered how good that day felt, even though I didn’t really remember the day itself.”

Buffy took in a shuddering breath, and her voice got higher and breathier.

“I thought we were  _it_. Soul mates. Forever. But every time he had a choice, he chose to leave. And so he wasn’t here the night I …” A tear streaked down her cheek, but she didn’t seem to notice it. “The night I died. So the reason he kept leaving –  _to protect me_  – was meaningless. He came back for Mom’s funeral. He knew all about Dawn, about Glory. But he  _left_. Again.”

She looked up at Spike, meeting his eyes for the first time since she’d started talking about Angel.

“I don’t understand how I could give him my heart with both hands, risk anything and everything because I loved him that much, and he never understood that all I ever wanted or needed from him was to  _be here_.” She sounded lost, bereft. She let her fingertips slide forward until they were almost touching Spike’s. “I think, now, that we never really  _saw_  each other. He saw his salvation in that girl in LA, who needed a protector. I saw romantic forbidden love, a safe way to rebel against my duty.” Her voice strengthened, deepened with the first hint of anger. “We had  _one day_  of reality, and he couldn’t take it.”

Spike interlaced his fingers with hers.

“And you!” She laughed, brittle and fragile. “I paralyse you. I insult you. When you’re chipped and helpless, I beat you up and threaten to kill you. I tell you you’re beneath me, that you’re incapable of love. And  _then_ , when I finally accept you  _do_  love me, I don’t acknowledge it or start treating you any better. Oh, no! I just use it to manipulate you. You should  _hate_  me.”

The tears started coming faster. “Why don’t you hate me?”

Spike watched her for a few seconds, his hands tightening around hers. When she tugged one away to wipe at her eyes, he followed, tracing his thumb along her cheek.

He was amazed that she let him.

He brought her other hand to his face and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Always respected your strength,” he said quietly. “Not your physical strength – though that’s impressive – but the way you never back down from a fight. Doesn’ matter how hurt or tired or hopeless you are. It’s like a bright an’ shinin’ core inside you. An’ it’s all connected with the people around you – it’s  _for them_  that you get up off the floor and keep goin’.  _For love_. You’ll make a deal with the devil, give up anything and everythin’ to make them happy, keep them safe. You’ve got your Slayer superpowers, but it’s your  _love_  makes you powerful, makes you Heaven’s Chosen One. It burns –  _radiates_  from you like a sun. How could anyone not fall in love with that?”

She was crying even harder now.

“What’s wrong, Love?” He moved around to her side of the table, her hands still in his.

The one thing she’d been  _so sure of_  since she’d been back was that he loved her. But now? She wasn’t capable of  _connecting_ , let alone loving. How would he feel when he realised that?

“D-don’t call me that!” she said, trying to pull away from him. “I don’t love you!”

“I know,” he said softly, kissing her knuckles again, and stepping in closer to her.

“I – I’m not even sure if I  _like_  you most of the time.”

He smiled, nudging her knees apart so he was standing between them. “Know that too.”

“What is  _wrong_  with you?” she said, pulling her hands out of his. Somehow, they ended up resting on his chest.

“So long as you’re alive?” he said, sliding his arms around her tightly and laying his cheek against her head. “Absolutely nothing.”

She let him hold her for a lot longer than he’d expected.

But she still ran: straight out into the sunlight, where he couldn’t follow.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Build-up to a storm, part 1

As he shut the door to Willow and Tara’s room behind him, Giles found himself leaning back against it. He felt exhausted. And so  _old_.

In three years he’d be fifty.

His fitness level was nearer that of a man ten years younger – even with five months of soft living – but he had scars … scars that ached at odd moments and that marked him as someone who had undergone terrible things. On days like this, he wondered whether he had truly survived any of them.

He felt he’d aged a whole year in the last week. There had been so many shocks and changes, he was struggling to keep up. Buffy  _alive_ , but not quite … quite.  _Spike_  of all people turning out to be … well,  _dependable!_  Giles shuddered. And Willow turning out not to be dependable at all.

Thank God Xander and Anya seemed to have remained unchanged.

And then there was Dawn.

Giles wondered – not for the first time – what would have happened if Buffy had just listened to him last year.

Spike had asked him if he’d forgiven Dawn yet. He’d wanted to say yes –  _but no, that’s a lie_. He’d felt he  _ought_  to say yes.

He wasn’t sure he had it in him to forgive her. His hatred was still raw and red and angry for all its dullness and muted volume. He knew that it had been Buffy’s choice to sacrifice herself, that she had been glad to do it, and that it was just the sort of hero’s death he had always expected her to have.

On his better days, he loved her all the more for having done it.

But he could never quite bring himself to accept that it had been the right choice.

If only Dawn had died and Buffy had lived! He would never have left. Willow would never have crumbled under the weight of being alone and in charge. Buffy would still have been in danger, of course – she was the Slayer! He had stopped railing against that particular unfairness years ago.

But she would have been  _whole_ , unbroken.

It didn’t matter that she’d insisted she’d be done – would quit – if Dawn died. She had felt the same way after killing Angel, and he was  _real_. Dawn wasn’t.

Buffy had come back from killing Angel so much stronger, more resilient, finally accepting her calling in a way she never had before. It might have damaged her to kill her daughter – Giles’ mind still stuttered slightly even thinking that. But he doubted very much that Bohdan Kosík would ever have come to Sunnydale if Dawn were dead, and Buffy would never have—

Giles stopped.

_Why_ had _Bohdan come?_

His Order and the Order of Dagon were both dead. And even if they hadn’t been, their entire purpose was to keep Glory from the Key. Glory was dead. They  _had_  no purpose now.

_What possible reason could he have for being in Sunnydale? Why reveal Dawn’s true parentage? And why_ now _?_

Experience taught him he wouldn’t like any of the answers. And whatever they were, it seemed highly probable Buffy would be putting her life in danger for Dawn.

Again.

_Perhaps trusting Spike really_ is _a sign of an upcoming apocalypse._

Giles pushed himself off of the door and started down the stairs.

He could still hear voices in the kitchen, and as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he began to be able to make out the words.

“What is  _wrong_  with you?”

_Buffy, not Dawn._

“So long as you’re alive? Absolutely nothing.”

Giles stopped and leaned against the newel post, his heart aching. There was a part of him that wished  _he’d_  been the one to tell her that…. It was certainly true enough. He tried his level best to take care of her – however and whenever she’d let him – to make her impossible life that little bit easier. Even when she was dead, she was by far the most important person in his life.

But they’d never had that kind of relationship. The thought of the two of them discussing their  _feelings_ … it made him want to laugh for a week.

The back door slamming shut shocked him back into motion, and he reached the kitchen doorway just in time to see Spike slumping back against the breakfast bar, eyes fixed on the closed back door.

“Is she … how is she?” Giles asked gently.

“Runnin’,” Spike said, still facing the door. He took a deep breath. “Mem’ry’s gettin’ better.” He smiled darkly to himself, finally turning towards Giles. “Hasn’t forgotten a single one of my fuck-ups. Still angry 'bout most of 'em, too.”

Giles was shocked by how much better Spike’s face looked – it was still obviously burned, but it didn’t hurt to look at anymore.  _Vampire healing._  He had a sudden pang of guilt that no one had thought to ask how he'd been injured.

“The nightmares you mentioned,” Giles started. “Tara said she suspected you’ve been … helping.”

Spike was shocked that Giles had passed up the opportunity to drive home the myriad ways in which he'd fucked up. He nodded slowly, watching Giles warily, but saying nothing.

“Friday night, she was screaming in agony and we were helpless to stop it,” Giles said quietly. “I … I had no idea it was that bad.”

Spike’s body relaxed as his eyes hardened. “Tried to tell you.”

Giles nodded. “You did,” he said stiffly.

“Seeing Angelus was … difficult,” Spike said carefully, his jaw ticking, his hands beginning a rhythm of clenching into fists before releasing.

Giles stiffened. “Angelus?”

Spike smiled grimly. “Seein’ Buffy alive again was no moment of perfect happiness, Rupes,” he said. “Not for  _him_.” Spike nearly spat the last word.

“Wanker,” Giles, more than a little surprised to find himself disappointed that Angel had failed to lose his soul.

Spike laughed.

Neither spoke for a few seconds.

“Is she  _talking_  to you?” Giles asked, finally.

“Some,” Spike said guardedly. “Not enough.”

“I … she needs help, right now," Giles said helplessly. "Help I don’t think she would ever accept from me.”

Spike smiled, almost proudly. “Doesn’ like bein’ taken care of, that one.”

“No,” Giles said. “But for some obscure reason, she seems to be willing to accept it from you right now.”

Spike just stared at him.

“And I can only deduce from the absence of screams last night that you are, in fact, helping.” Giles took a deep breath. It was time to take the plunge. “So long as that continues, I will not interfere.”

Spike drew in a breath in preparation to speak.

Giles went rigid, his eyes going hard and cold. “But if you hurt her – if you take even the slightest advantage in any way, shape or form – by  _God_  I will make you regret it.”

“Won’t ever hurt her, Rupert,” Spike said softly, meeting the other man’s eyes. “Dust first.”

Giles began to unclench his muscles, and some of the tension leaked out of the room. “Good.” He paused, fixing Spike with another glare. “And for Christ’s sake, stop calling me Rupert!”

Spike grinned. “Care for a cuppa …  _Rupes_?”

Giles rolled his eyes.

Spike filled the kettle and switched it on. He couldn’t quite hold back a sharp intake of breath as he bent over to pick up a fallen teaspoon.  _Still can’t bend._

“What happened to you on Friday night, anyway?” Giles asked.

“I was very nearly too stupid to live,” Spike said drily.

“Seriously,” Giles said, exasperated.

“Seriously,  _Giles_ , I fucked up. End of.”

Giles harrumphed. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

Giles was pleasantly surprised to see Spike remembered how he took his tea.

Spike placed two full mugs on the breakfast bar and gingerly eased himself into the stool opposite Giles. Wincing, he said, “You got anything in your Wanker library explainin’ why internal organ damage hurts us so damn’ much?”

Giles blanched. “Not that I know of….”

“Not like I  _use_  my soddin’ kidneys,” Spike grumbled. “Still hurts like a bitch to regrow ‘em.”

“You can actually  _regrow_  damaged internal organs?” Giles asked, patting himself down for a notebook and pen almost despite himself.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara and Willow were wandering around the warehouse district near Glory’s tower, searching for signs of the bot.

It was Tara who’d first thought of her –  _it?_  – while they were putting away groceries and she’d come across the spray can of silicone grease under the kitchen sink.

Willow was a little embarrassed she hadn’t remembered earlier – especially since she’d been talking about it with Buffy only that morning.

They didn’t really expect to find  _much_  – hellions weren’t exactly known for their restraint – and the bot was programmed to return to Willow if it got damaged. Clearly, it had to be pretty badly damaged.

But after almost fifteen minutes of looking, they hadn’t found a single trace.

Becoming increasingly agitated, Willow whispered the words to the spell she’d used to pick up the glass from the living room floor, adjusting it to find pieces of the bot.

Nothing happened.

“It’s not here,” Willow said to Tara, her voice high and panicky.

“We don’t know that,” Tara said calmly. “We haven’t b-been looking very long. And they might have dragged her off somewhere else.”

Willow nodded, unconvinced. “I guess we can widen the search area. They  _were_  on motorcycles.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“I understand you’ve been patrolling alone all this time,” Giles said, very carefully examining his now nearly-empty cup of tea.

Spike shrugged, somewhat uncomfortably.

Giles sighed. “I had assumed that Willow and Xander would be … more active.”

Spike laughed, relaxing. Scooby-bashing he could handle. “Golden children not quite living up to expectations?”

“I am becoming very concerned about Willow.”

Spike snorted. “Took you long enough.”

Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. “I believe she may be on the verge of seriously harming someone.”

“ _On the verge_?” Spike went rigid, fists clenched. “She already sodding has!”

“When? What’s happened?” Giles asked, his heart sinking.

Spike slumped back and hung his head. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” He sounded defeated. “What  _is it_  with you people?”

Giles cocked his head in confusion.

Spike lifted his head to stare at Giles. “ _Dawn_!” he almost shouted.

“Ah,” Giles said softly. “Dawn.”

“Had to put a bar on her bedroom door so she’d feel safe enough to  _sleep_  with the witches in the house,” Spike said. “A  _bar_. In her own bloody home.”

Giles sighed. “I hadn’t realised she had been so … affected.”

Spike snorted in disbelief.

“Willow called Angel,” Giles continued. “She … hoped his presence would give her an opportunity to … comfort … Buffy.”

Spike let out a bark of shocked laughter. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, rotating his neck, before roaring, “Why the FUCK is she still in the house?!”

The violence of the images running through his head were enough to ignite the chip, and he reared back, clutching at his head in pain. “Fuck,” he said, putting a brave front on a whimper. The damage from Friday seemed to be amplifying the pain well beyond normal levels. Spike really hoped it was only temporary.

Giles waited a few seconds before speaking. “Tara told me yesterday that she planned to insist they leave.”

“ _Insist_?” Spike said derisively, his head still cradled in his hands. “Tara only does what Willow wants. Surely even  _you_  realise that.”

“Unfortunately,” Giles sighed, “I believe that is truer today than it was yesterday.”

Spike lifted his head gingerly. “What’s the bitch gonna be forgiven for this time?” he asked, tired resignation supplanting the anger.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy had run, unthinking, out of the house, just letting her feet lead her.

She was surprised to find herself at the foot of Glory’s tower. She hadn’t been here since she’d jumped.

It seemed somehow  _smaller_  in daylight.

She looked around at the debris. Maybe bits of it had just fallen off.

Buffy stopped at the place where she though her body should have hit the ground. There was nothing there, no mark, no indication that  _right here_ , someone died.

She guessed it had been cleaned up, after.

“Buffy!” Willow shouted, running over to her.

Buffy froze. “Willow,” she said, visibly startling. “I … I didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

This time, Willow immediately noticed Buffy’s tear-stained face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Tara approached more slowly. “Your feet are b-bleeding, Buffy.”

Buffy looked down, realising she'd left the house without any shoes. “Oh,” she said. Then she noticed the pain. “Yeah. Major ouchies.”

“I have a first aid kit in my car,” Tara said. “You need to get cleaned up.”

Willow and Tara tried to take most of her weight as they helped her limp towards the car.

“What  _happened_?” Willow asked again.

Buffy shrugged as best she could while draped over the other two. “I … I just needed to get out of the house.”

“Without your shoes?” Willow asked, sceptically.

“Wasn’t really thinking that far ahead,” Buffy said.

Willow opened her mouth, ready to start with the questions and recriminations, but then she snapped it shut again.  _This is about helping Buffy._  “What can I do for you?” she asked, finally.

Buffy really thought about what she wanted from Wilow the rest of the awkward, painful limp to the car.

As Tara was rummaging around in the trunk and Willow was helping Buffy to sit, she realised: “You know what you could do, Will?”

Willow brightened. “Anything, Buff. You know you just have to ask.”

“You think you guys could maybe give me some rent money?”

Willow felt like she’d been kicked in the gut.

“No rush,” Buffy said, then paused. “Actually, I have no idea if there’s a rush. I’m kinda just letting Anya handle all the money stuff.”

Now it was like a knife, twisting around Willow’s insides. A part of her recognised that money really was something that would help Buffy right now, and the more the better. But another part of her felt like her family was being taken away from her.  _It’s so humiliating! I shouldn’t have to_  pay  _to live with my_  family _!_ Willow could barely remember the last time she’d even spoken to her parents. Buffy was far more her family than her blood family had ever been. Buffy and Dawn.

And Anya was  _handling_  the money stuff now! Buffy was choosing Anya over Willow. First Spike, now Anya. It was  _wrong_!  _It shouldn’t be_  like _this._

“Sure, Buffy,” Tara said, coming back from the trunk with the kit. “I can write you a cheque for six hundred right now. It might take me a little while to sort out the b-back rent….” Tara flushed, embarrassed. “B-b-b-but I think if I juggle some things around I can manage it.”

_How is Tara so unfazed by this?_  Willow wondered. “Yeah, sure,” she agreed, her voice dazed.

Tara gave her a sharp glance.

“My chequebook’s at home, but I should have enough to cover it.” Willow’s voice was a bit watery, but she managed to hold back the tears hammering at her for release.

Visions of shoes danced in Buffy’s head before she stamped them down with the realities of bills and mortgage payments. “Great. Thanks, guys,” Buffy said, warmth lending colour to her previously dull voice.  _Maybe Anya can find me a spare couple hundred somewhere…._

Tara handed her the first aid kit. “It’s pretty b-basic, but there’s tweezers and antiseptic wipes in there.”

Buffy smiled up at Tara and Willow as she took the kit. It was a very small smile, but it was one of the precious few genuine smiles they’d seen since her return.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“My primary concern is what Willow will do if confronted directly again,” Giles said. “Her power is undeniable, and in her current state, she is incapable of seeing any of her actions as wrong.”

“Well isn’t that just … neat,” Spike said. “Do enough damage and you end up with immunity? That one of those things that comes along with the soul like the soddin’ prize in a cereal box? You’d have staked me in a second if I’d done  _half_  of what she’s doin’.”

“That’s beside the point,” Giles said. “If she’s willing to tamper with  _Tara’s_  memories so soon after Glory broke her mind, what will she be willing to do to you?” Giles paused. “What might she do to Buffy?” Giles paused for effect. “Or Dawn?” He watched Spike take it in. “A direct intervention right now would be more likely to provoke an attack of some kind than to change her bahaviour.”

“Oh, go on then,” Spike groaned. “Tell us your precious plan. Can tell you’re dyin’ to.”

They glared at each other almost amicably.

“I know a very powerful coven in Devon,” Giles said. “I am hoping they will know of a way to … bind her powers … maybe provide us with some protection …  _something_  until she can be depended upon to at least  _try_  to control herself.”

“An’ what happens if she’s too far gone to be saved?” Spike asked. “What she’s doin’, it’s not about the magic, it’s about the  _control_. What if she can’t let go?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Giles said. “But … I cannot help but believe that the girl I knew is still in there somewhere.”

Spike shrugged. “Buffy cares for her, so ‘m willin’ to try it your way. For a while. Doesn’t work?” Spike shifted into game face and hissed.

Giles jerked back, despite himself. “She is a  _very_  powerful witch, Spike. Such a … direct … approach may not work.”

Spike laughed as his ridges and teeth melted away. The pure  _malevolence_  of his laughter was nearly tangible in its intensity.

Giles felt a line of sweat trickling down his back, sending shivers through his whole body.

“Still sleeps, doesn’ she?” Spike said, the glittering blue of his eyes even colder and deadlier than the demonic amber.

Giles was suddenly absolutely certain he never, ever wanted Spike to view him as a threat.

Giles nearly fell off his stool five minutes later when Dawn came home and Spike got up to greet her. Such …  _gentleness_  so hard on the heels of such violence. Even his eyes seemed to have become a warmer shade of blue.

And all it took was Dawn walking into the room.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

It had taken a long time for Buffy to get all of the glass and gravel out of her feet, so it was almost dark by the time they started driving home.

Tara kept snatching glances over at Willow. She had obviously been shaken to the core by Buffy’s request for rent and whatever was going on in her head right now, it wasn’t pleasant. There was  _muttering_.

Tara’s resolve to leave Revello Drive strengthened with every mile.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dinner was awkward – although probably not so awkward as it would have been had Spike been there. Dawn wouldn’t talk to Willow; Willow wouldn’t talk to Giles; and Buffy had retreated to near-catatonia.

Everyone wholeheartedly missed the distraction of the television. There was an audible sigh of relief when Buffy seemed to suddenly wake up and announced that she would be purchasing a replacement tomorrow. That was the first genuine conversation of the evening, and it lasted almost two whole minutes.

The nearest they came to a normal discussion was brainstorming about how to find the bot. Somehow – despite the hostility surrounding the circumstances of its disappearance – everyone’s total commitment to keeping it out of the hands of Buffy’s enemies acted as a sort of social band-aid.

For fifteen golden minutes, anyway.

Everyone escaped to their respective rooms as early as was acceptably polite – Dawn slightly earlier than that.

When Giles returned to the kitchen at midnight to put a call through to the Devon coven, he did not expect an audience.

But Willow had come downstairs for a cup of sleepy tea, and she heard nearly the whole thing from the bottom of the stairs.

_Binding powers, protective amulets, out of control...._

When the basement door had shut and she'd finally started making her tea, she was an accidental witness again, as Spike came home and went straight upstairs.

Willow waited nearly an hour, but he never came back down.

Her whole world seemed to be collapsing in on her, and she was suffocating from the pressure.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Build-up to a storm, part 2_

The longer Willow sat in the kitchen, the more desperate she became to find out what was happening upstairs. Almost before she realised what she was doing, she was outside Buffy’s door, ear pressed against the wood.

Just as embarrassment was starting to win out over curiosity, Willow heard a single cry. It was so achingly desolate she could hardly believe it came from Buffy. A low rumble of words followed it – too quiet for her to make out – and then muffled weeping.

That was when she remembered Buffy’s nightmares.

With a guilty start, she jerked away from the door.

Tonight was the second night she’d failed to offer to sit up with Buffy, failed to make her sleepy tea or a ward against bad dreams.

Willow dug her fingers into the still-dark bruises at her shoulder and hip from when she’d been thrown across the room on Friday night.

Twice now she’d failed her best friend and  _Spike_  had stepped into the vacuum.

Willow put her ear back against the door. But no matter how hard she strained, their voices were still too quiet for her to make out the words. A resounding “No!” from Buffy suddenly lifted above the unintelligible murmuring; then more back-and-forth that Willow couldn’t follow; and finally … Spike  _laughing_?

Frustrated, Willow muttered an incantation and drew her finger in a wide circle on the door. With a shimmer, the area inside the circle became a sort of one-way window, allowing Willow to see and hear, but without revealing her presence.

Buffy was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, and Spike was lying on his back alongside her, knees drawn up, bare feet firmly planted.

He was making the whole bed shake with his laughter while Buffy stared at him in shocked disbelief.

Willow couldn’t believe how normal and comfortable and  _domestic_  they looked.

Then Buffy slapped his shoulder. “Quit it!” she whispered fiercely. “I’m being serious!”

Spike barely reacted, so it couldn’t have been very hard. But Willow couldn’t understand why she hadn’t hit him harder – he was  _laughing_  at her. How could he do something so cruel?

Spike stopped laughing with visible difficulty, propping himself up on his elbows and bumping one knee lightly against Buffy’s shoulder before letting it rest there. “How can someone so smart be so stupid?” he said gently. “Hey?”

Buffy glared at him.

“Everything you do is for love.  _Everything_.”

Willow frowned.  _What on earth can they talking about?_

“No it isn’t!” Buffy said, high-pitched and indignant.

“You can’t connect to Dawn because you’re terrified of hurting her again.  _Unbelievably_  bloody stupid of you and cutting you both to ribbons – but still done out of love.” Spike gave her a gentle shove with his knees, the movement making the mattress dip, pushing them even closer together.

“An’ if you didn’t love your precious Slayerettes so much, the first thing you’d’ve done was beat them all to a bloody pulp for what they did to you,” Spike’s voice went hard and cold.

_What_ we _did? What have_ we _ever done to – oh. Right. Coffin._

“It’s what’s  _right_ ,” Buffy said firmly, shoving his legs away from her. “Nothing to do with love.”

“All that morality rot is far too complex for where you’re at right now.”

“And where is that?”

“Grievin’,” he said softly. “Numbing yourself to cope with the loss.”

Both Buffy and Willow reeled back as if slapped in an almost perfectly synchronised movement, but for entirely different reasons.

_What could Buffy_   _be grieving about?_

Willow lost focus on the scene before her, entirely absorbed by the question.

Only Buffy heard Spike say, “I will always love you. Nothin’ can change that.”

Willow watched him sit up and reach one hand out toward Buffy. “I am  _yours_ ,” he said, cupping her face with his palm, stroking back and forth along her cheekbone with his thumb. “Eyeballs to entrails,” he whispered slowly, trailing a line from her cheek, around her jaw, and down her neck to the hollow of her throat, from her breastbone to her belly before letting his hand drop into her lap.

Willow was so busy being revolted by the imagery, she completely missed the way Buffy leaned into his hand, how she shivered at his touch, and the hunger in her eyes as they followed his hand down her body.

Satisfied that what was going on with Buffy and Spike was mostly talking, Willow shut the magical window, and dragged herself back to bed. Tara, asleep and blissfully unaware, curled up against her, limbs and lips drowsily welcoming her back.

But Willow couldn’t relax into her touch. Her mind was too loud, thoughts racing too fast.

She gave in to an attack of the guilts for a long time, wallowing in self-pity and self-recriminations.

_Maybe Giles was right and I_ am _out of control?_

But on the heels of that thought, Willow had a sudden epiphany: it had all started going wrong when her resurrection spell was interrupted.

_If only I’d_  finished  _it. If only I could just go back to Tuesday night … I’d make everything_  right  _again._

The nebulous beginnings of a plan started to form in her mind, but then Dawn’s alarm was going off, and Willow realised she’d better try to get at least a couple hours’ sleep, or she’d never be able to get through the day.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Breakfast with Dawn was usually the highlight of Spike’s day, the time when he felt most connected, least alone. But this morning … her alarm felt jarring instead of welcoming, like the rude interruption to a beautiful dream that it was.

Buffy’s scent and warmth and  _limbs_  were wrapped around him and suffusing his senses, and all he wanted to do was pull her closer, lose himself in the feel of her skin, her scent, her softness. To bask in her sunshine for as long as she’d let him.

But Dawn came first. Had to. It surprised him that it didn’t even feel like a choice – it was just something that  _was_.

So he started disentangling himself from Buffy and the nest of covers they’d built. But  _oh, god_  it was hard. Touching her was like an addiction, complete with all the agonies of withdrawal.

“What kinda vamp are you?” Buffy asked muzzily, sleep-heavy arms still draped around him. “S’posed to sleep now.”

“Dawn needs to get ready for school, Love,” Spike said, reluctantly placing her arms back on the bed.

Buffy curled away from him and mumbled something into the pillow. Her hair spread out behind her head all warm and shining, like golden rays of sunshine.

“You could get up, too,” Spike said, kneeling next to her, threading his belt back through his jeans and only just keeping his fingers from threading through her hair. “Have breakfast with us?”

“Don’t wanna,” Buffy whined, resolutely keeping her eyes shut.

He watched her burrow back under the duvet until only the crown of her head was visible. Only when her breathing had evened out, and she was all the way asleep again, did he allow himself to lightly brush his fingertips through her hair.

He left his socks and boots behind – certain if he stayed long enough to put them on, he’d never be able to drag himself away.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara woke first, with Willow’s head nestled between her breasts, one hand fisted in her hair, the other clutching at her hip, their legs tangled together.

“Willow, we need to talk,” she said softly, stroking her fingers through Willow’s hair.

“I know,” Willow mumbled sleepily. “But … not yet. Please?”

“What’s wrong, Sweetie?” Tara asked. Willow was clinging to her like a child. It wasn’t like her.

“I need you, Tara,” Willow whispered. “So much.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tara said, bewildered but still smiling.

Willow nuzzled against her, needing to be  _together_  for a little bit longer.

When it was like this, she could forget that Tara’s continued love and affection had been bought and paid for by a spell.

For a little while, anyway.

Her resolve strengthened. She couldn’t go on like this.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Anya?” Giles called out. “What do you know about protection spells?

He’d been in the Magic Box for hours now. Disappointingly, although he’d found a wealth of protection spells, all the ones with real power behind them seemed either to be geared against physical harm, or else they were far too specific.

_At least if the Hordes of Astaroth ever rise again, I know exactly where to go._

And every spell he’d found against more generic magical interference was so weak as to be useless for someone of Willow’s powers.

“I know I used to brute force past them a lot,” Anya said blandly, leaving the counter to join Giles at the research table.

Giles sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“It’s about Willow, isn’t it?” Anaya said. Then she gasped. “Is this to do with how she interpreted ‘Vino de Madre’? It  _was_  virgins, wasn’t it!” Anya looked almost exultant now. “I  _told_  Xander she looked guilty.”

“She’s not that far gone yet!” Giles snapped. He slumped back in his chair. “She called a fawn to her magically,” he said quietly, “and then she slit its throat.”

“If she’s already on that path,” Anya said, shrugging “it’s a question of when not if.”

“Perhaps,” Giles said wearily. “I have asked some friends to investigate the possibility of binding her powers for a time.”

Anya’s eyes opened wide. “She doesn’t know that, does she?”

“No, no,” Giles said soothingly. “I phoned very late last night. She was fast asleep.”

“Good,” Anya said, visibly relieved. “When Willow gets angry, she has a tendency to take it out on  _everyone_. And I really don’t want to have to pay for your indiscretions.”

“Thank you, as ever, for your support, Anya,” Giles said.

She smiled brightly. “You’re welcome.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow was physically present at her morning lectures, but her mind was completely occupied with fleshing out her Plan to Make Things Right.

The first step was supplies.

Willow picked the lunchtime rush to go to the Magic Box. She could hardly tell  _Anya_  about her Plan, so she would need to be sneaky.

She knew she couldn’t use  _much_  magic to hide herself – she’d heard Anya say more than once that she could still sorta smell it – but a blurring spell should be safe enough. Just the barest smidgeon of help to blend into the crowd that little bit better….

Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw Giles through the shop window. But while she was busy panicking, he walked straight past her and into the sandwich shop three doors down.

She couldn’t believe her luck.

Willow whispered under her breath as she followed someone through the door and crept round the edges of the shop, keeping at least one person between her and Anya’s direct line of sight at all times.

She heaved a sigh of relief as she closed the basement door behind her. It was all going exactly as she’d hoped.

There were two bags of Lethe’s bramble in the herb stores: one with just a few ounces left, and one full and unopened. Even though Willow only needed three sprigs – well, maybe four – she put the open bag straight into her backpack. Just in case.

She was two steps away from the front door and freedom when the man next to her sneezed. Before she could stop herself she had stopped her blurring incantation to say, “Bless you!”

Anya’s head snapped up at the familiar voice. “Willow!” she called out. “What are  _you_  doing here?”

Willow couldn’t control the guilty expression on her face.

Anya’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Willow could feel her knees getting weak as her mouth helplessly opened and shut a few times.  _What can I say?_

Then suddenly police sirens filled the air, and everyone was rushing outside to see what was going on, pulling Willow with them.

According to the hubbub on the street, some guy in a Halloween mask had just robbed a bank.

Willow sent up a short prayer to Goddess on behalf of her fellow thief and went back to campus to meet Tara for lunch.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy came home exhausted, every nerve raw and jangling.

Anya had told her she could safely spend any change from the thousand dollars Spike had given her for a new TV.

Well,  _actually_  what she’d said was that Buffy desperately needed new clothes, because she was so thin now she looked like some kind of dwarfish yet weirdly fashion-oblivious professional model. And that she and Dawn probably wouldn’t starve to death if none of Spike’s TV money got spent on bills.

But the end result was the same.

So a new TV would be arriving sometime tomorrow between two and six, and she had new things to unpack.

If she hadn’t known better, Buffy would have thought it felt like a moment of …  _happiness_.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Whatever goodwill there had been at the outset of the search for the Buffy-bot had been well and truly worn out by the end of it.

Buffy’s shopping expedition had already depleted her conversational ability, and the near-constant futile battle for her monosyllabic attentions from Dawn, Willow and Xander was nothing but exhausting for everyone.

Meanwhile, Spike and Anya’s passive-aggression toward Willow was like accelerant to a flame. Although Giles was relieved they’d managed to hold themselves back from direct confrontation, Anya was  _watching_  her so obviously even Xander picked up on it, and Spike’s progression from icy silence to cruel civility to bitter sniping was so far from tactful it hurt.

Only Tara seemed to be genuinely trying to keep the peace. But she was powerless against seven such determined combatants.

For while Giles would very much like to say he’d behaved better, he knew he hadn’t. Not really.

If they’d found some trace of the bot, it might have eased things somewhat. But they hadn’t.

So they all trooped back to Revello Drive in an irritable silence, then organised drinks and chairs and snacks to put off for a few more minutes the discussion that would force them to finally acknowledge there was nothing more they could do: the bot was gone.

As Dawn passed through the hallway to get a glass of juice and Giles was bringing two chairs through from the dining room, the front door knob started twisting and turning.

They both stopped to stare at it.

Confused, Dawn asked, “Are we expecting someone?”

Then the door exploded inwards, shards of wood flying, knocking Dawn backwards and onto the floor.

As a roaring and irate M’Fashnik demon stepped across the threshold, Dawn started screaming.

The M’Fashnik casually backhanded Giles, sending him headfirst into the banister and knocking him out cold. Then, kicking the chairs out of his way, he turned back towards Dawn, still screaming on the floor. “You're not the Slayer,” he growled. “But you'll do for a start.” He lunged for her, but before he got there, Buffy had grabbed his shirt and yanked him away.

“You're paying for that door, buddy!” Buffy said, throwing him back across the hallway and into the living room. She was grateful there was still no rug or coffee table, because it meant the demon slid straight across the hardwood floor and slammed head-first into the wall.

“Dawn!” Spike shouted. “Your room, NOW! An’ bar the door behind you!”

Dawn stopped screaming and scrambled to get upright while Tara, Willow, Xander and Anya ran around the momentarily stunned M’Fashnik and into the hallway.

“I vote Dawn’s room!” Xander said. The others nodded. He and Anya took Giles’ shoulders and Willow and Tara grabbed his feet, and the six of them got upstairs as quickly as they could.

The demon flipped to his feet, roaring again. “You’ve cost me, Slayer,” he growled, waving his meaty fists in the air, completely oblivious to the damage he was doing to the shelf of knickknacks behind him and Joyce’s now-smashed Tiffany lamp.

“ _I_  cost  _you_?” Buffy said incredulously. “That was a designer lamp, ya mook!”

Then he launched himself at Buffy with a flying tackle, crash landing them both on the dining room chairs in the hallway. The chairs buckled under their combined weight, and since Buffy was on the bottom, she bore the brunt of the sharp edges and splintered shards of wood.

It wasn’t debilitating or anything, but …  _ow!_

Then Spike jerked the M’Fashnik up and off her, and threw him through the doorway to the kitchen, head-first through the window of the back door.

The M’Fashnik started snarling and roaring as he struggled to get his head clear of the broken glass without slitting his own throat.

Buffy got to her feet and after him, calling out, “Spike! Basement door!”

Spike opened the door to the basement, rolling his eyes as Buffy growled, “I'm taking him down.” She grabbed the M’Fashnik – who had just escaped the back door window – and bum-rushed him through the door and down the steps in a sickening series of bumps, thumps and crunches that made Spike cringe.

He watched them land heavily on the cement floor, still locked in combat.

“Need a hand, Love?” Spike called down.

Buffy had the M’Fashnik on the defensive, punching him repeatedly in the face while he staggered backwards. “Will you,” punch, “PLEASE,” punch, “stop trying to steal my kills!”

The M’Fashnik head-butted her, shoving her a good few feet backwards with the force of it. But her grunt and near-seamless follow-up kick convinced Spike she was fine.

“I’ll just check your Watcher’s not dead, then, shall I?” he shouted, leaving her to it.

The M’Fashnik was now incoherent with rage at how this tiny, hornless, weapon-less  _woman_  was faring against him. Waving his hands in the air as he roared out his frustration, he brushed against one of the heavy steel pipes lining the ceiling.

Buffy managed to keep him from ripping out the pipe directly, but he still did  _something_ , and suddenly it was like multiple fire hydrants exploding out of every wall in the basement, plus the ceiling.

The roar of the water was nearly deafening, and while Buffy was imitating a drowned rat and thoroughly distracted, the demon came up behind her and grabbed her arms, wrenching them up to restrain her. Then he frog-marched her towards one of the streaming jets of water and shoved her face far enough into the spray she couldn’t turn away from it.

She was drowning.

She could feel her body starting to relax, let go, in preparation for death.

The Slayer took over.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

By the time Spike came back down again, the M’Fashnik was lying on the floor, the still-rising water around him nearly black with blood, and Buffy was pounding at him with a section of pipe broken off from the wall.

“Whoa!” he yelled. “What the bloody hell happened down here?” By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs he, too, was completely drenched, but it was what he  _saw_  that made his blood run cold.

Spike had always thought it impossible to  _crack_  a M’Fashnik skull, but this … there was a skin-bag of pulverised mush where his head used to be. It looked like a plastic doll left melting in the sun and each dull whack of Buffy’s pipe was making everything jiggle like jello.

“Buffy!” Spike shouted, grabbing her wrist to stop the rhythmic pounding. “You can stop! Think he’s dead now!”

Buffy looked up at him with flat, dead eyes.

Spike just had time to think,  _Bollocks, not again_ , before the pipe connected with his face and everything went black.

Dawn was coming down the stairs as Buffy’s blow sent Spike falling into the water. She saw the M’Fashnik’s no-longer-a-head and Buffy’s arm pulling back, ready for another swing at Spike.

“Stop it!” she screamed.  _Not dust, not dust, not dust!_

Buffy looked up at the sound, quickly dismissing Dawn as a threat before turning back to kill the vampire.

Dawn saw only blankness where Buffy used to be.  _She’s really gonna kill him._

Dawn nearly flew the rest of the way down the stairs. She shut her eyes against the water, putting everything she had into tackling Buffy away from Spike. She could feel the strength of Buffy’s body beneath hers as they fell, the pain of Buffy’s fingers digging into her as they struggled for the pipe, and then Dawn’s teeth were rattling and every bone was aching from the impact of landing completely the wrong way on the concrete floor.

Dawn tried to push through the shock, to tense up ready for whatever blank-Buffy was going to do to her, but then she thought she heard a hoarse “Dawnie?” over the roar of the water.

Terrified, Dawn opened her eyes, and saw Buffy, eyes wide and alert, looking even more terrified than Dawn felt.

“Are you hurt?” Buffy yelled.

Dawn shook her head.

And then Buffy was pulling her into a fierce hug. She thought Buffy might also have said, “I’m sorry,” but the water was still roaring in her ears and she couldn’t be sure.

Dawn hugged her back as tightly as she could. She was still scared and wet and cold and hurting, but she’d saved Spike, and with a sudden flash of insight, she thought maybe she’d saved Buffy too.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Wash it all away_

Tara looked around and sighed. The only remaining trace of Joyce’s once carefully curated living room was a single wooden sculpture.

“Ready for the vacuum in here?” Buffy asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Tara replied. Buffy’s skin was grey, like the dark shadows under her eyes had spread out to cover her entire face. At least, Tara hoped it was that, rather than an actual bruise, which was also possible.

Buffy turned on the vacuum and started moving it around the room in quick jerks.

As she moved out into the hall, Giles came back into the living room wearing sleepwear courtesy of Xander: an oversized t-shirt and board shorts. That was disconcerting enough – even though Tara’d had a while to get used to it – but he was also now carrying a bundle of bedding with Teddy Bear pictures on them.

Tara figured she must’ve looked at him funny, because he said, “They’re whimsical,” in a very no-nonsense sort of voice, before starting to make up the sofa.

Tara wasn’t entirely sure whether he was joking.

“How’s the head?” she asked once he was finished.

“Better,” Giles said weakly, sitting down. “But it wouldn’t be a proper homecoming without a little concussion.”

Tara ducked her head, smiling.

They heard the vacuum shut off, and Buffy came back into the room.

“Guess that’s it, huh?”

The three of them looked around. Now the living room was clean, it looked bare; all the heart and vibrancy had gone out of it.

The only signs of life were Giles’ suitcase – in the fireplace to avoid dripping on the wooden floor – and a couple of garbage bags filled with Spike’s belongings.

Buffy collapsed on the sofa next to Giles.

The Frankenstein’s monster of a front door opened and Willow came back in. “Okay, Xander and Anya have gone, and all the bags are out waiting for trash day.” She looked around, body stiffening. “Spike can’t  _still_  be out on body disposal? He left hours ago.”

“I asked him to do some reconnaissance,” Giles said.

_When did_  that _happen?_  Willow wondered. She pushed back the suspicion that they might be secretly planning something –  _Giles_  hates  _Spike; they could never do anything_  together _._

“It is notoriously difficult to control a M’Fashnik demon, and it is imperative we find out who or what we’re dealing with,” Giles continued gravely.

Willow hadn’t even thought about that aspect of things. “O-of course. Yeah,” she said.

Buffy was staring out into space.

_I’ve trashed this house so many times. How did Mom deal with it all those years?_

_I can’t do this._

_I_ can’t _._

“Buffy?” Giles said gently.

_Oh! Talking. Pay attention, Buffy._

“I think we should all go to bed,” Giles said. “It’s been a very long night, and Xander’s plumber friend will be here very early.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara sat in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, and trying desperately not to feel guilty that she still hadn’t spoken to Willow about leaving. She hadn’t changed her mind – not exactly – but Willow had seemed better the last couple days. She was being all cuddly and affectionate – almost  _begging_  her not to bring it up, as if she knew Tara was gearing up for something she wouldn’t like….

Tara remembered Giles asking about what she remembered from Saturday night.

But Willow would  _never_  mess with her memory.

Would she?

Willow sat on the end of the bed, watching Tara. It was usually one of her favourite night-time rituals, but she was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to be paying much attention.

There was just no way she’d be able to get near the fireplace tonight.

It was too late to slip something to Giles to make sure he’d sleep through her activities, and who knew when Spike would get home!

But one more night wasn’t so long to wait. Not for  _this_.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike was waiting outside Dawn’s room a few hours later when her alarm went off.

“C’mon, Platelet!” he called. “Time to get up.”

He heard her slap at the alarm, then the rustle of covers before Dawn thumped out of bed with a groan and dragged herself to the door.

She unbarred and opened it. “Your eye’s all black,” she said blearily.

Spike winced. “How bad?”

“Like I should be calling the National Domestic Violence Hotline.”

“Oi!” Spike said, glaring.

Dawn blinked owlishly at him for a few seconds. “Since when d’you own sweatpants?” she asked, finally.

He looked down.  _Bollocks!_  “Gonna be late if you don’t hurry,” Spike said, thankful Dawn was still only barely conscious.

Dawn grunted and shuffled off to the bathroom to gather her products for a shower at school.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“And a big Sunnydale round of applause for Tito the amazing. Plumber extraordinaire,” Xander said, making a Vanna-White-esque gesture as Tito came through the basement door.

Buffy, Giles, Spike and Dawn stared at him expectantly.

“Basically, your pipes are shot,” Tito said, squirming a little under the pressure of four sets of eyes. “I mean, the whole system's gonna have to be replaced. You need the full copper re-pipe down there.”

“Full copper re-pipe?” Dawn said. “That sounds pricey.”

Tito shrugged. “Whatever we do, it’s gonna be cheaper than water damage. You’re lucky it was only the basement. You got nice hardwood floors down here; they’d warp a treat if your kitchen pipes blew.” He handed Buffy a piece of paper. “I’ll be back with my crew in a bit. We’ll do all the wet stuff today – turn the mains back on when we leave.” He nodded in Xander’s direction. “This guy says he’ll do your dry-walling tomorrow.” Tito smiled. “It won’t be as pretty as mine,” he slapped Xander’s shoulder, “but it’ll get the job done.” Xander gave him a good-natured shove. “Anyways, I gotta go get a pump and some pipes. But if you got any questions, my number's on the invoice. Someone’s gonna be here all day, right?”

“Yeah, man,” Xander said, as Spike indicated he’d be in the house all day. “And thanks,” Xander said. Tito waved, then left through the boarded-over back door.

Dawn leaned over to look at the invoice. “That's a weird phone number. Wait – is that the  _bill_?”

“Hey now,” Xander said. “Tito cut you a great deal. Those are his bargain basement prices. I did good haggling, if I do say so myself.”

He looked over at Buffy, expectantly awaiting her praise.

But Buffy was frozen in place, her eyes glued to the invoice.

“Buffy?” Dawn said, waving her hand in front of her eyes.

“Huh?” Buffy finally snapped out of it.

“You okay in there?” Spike asked.

Buffy started laughing.

Giles plucked the invoice out of her rigid fingers. He whistled at the amount.

“How ‘bout we just burn the house to the ground and collect the insurance?” Buffy said finally. “Plus, fire? Pretty.”

They all stared at her uncomfortably.

“Kidding!” Buffy said, smiling weakly. “I’m kidding.”  _Sorta_.  _Oh god, I can’t do this._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles and Buffy set out for the Magic Box training room just after Xander left with Dawn for school. Most importantly, there was a working shower there, but Giles also wanted to put Buffy through her paces.

Spike had spirited away the M’Fashnik’s corpse before anyone else could see it – no one knew about Buffy’s violent streak when in a fugue state, and he wanted to keep it that way – but he  _had_  shared with Giles his surprise that she’d not just cracked but crushed his skull.

So Giles had asked Buffy to do some training exercises. And the more he saw, the more Spike’s suspicions were confirmed: she’d come back  _significantly_  stronger.

Her reflexes seemed to be quicker and sharper as well.

But it was also obvious her heart wasn’t in anything anymore – she was only going through the motions. Before, she would have questioned his motives in testing her – vociferously – whereas now she just quietly acquiesced. There was no argument, no  _fight_  in her. It was unsettling.

He didn’t understand what was happening to his Slayer, and his sense of helplessness was becoming almost physically painful.

He needed to get back to England to do proper research, consult the Council’s library and speak to Council and coven experts.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya was more than a little surprised to see Tara coming into the Magic Box late that afternoon. She’d never even seen her without Willow before.

She was still more surprised when Tara marched straight to the counter, slapped down a small flowery herb, and asked her what it was.

But when she told Tara it was Lethe’s bramble – seventy-five cents a gram – and mostly used for memory spells, Anya was shocked speechless.

There was a burning, broiling rage coming off the girl in waves, white-hot and intense. And for the first time in months – maybe even years – Anya could feel the pull of her powers like a phantom limb, aching and insistent.

Whatever Willow had done with Lethe’s bramble, Tara wanted vengeance.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy left Giles at the Magic Box, muttering about protection spells, to go home and deal with the detritus in her now dry-ish basement.

She knew most of the boxes were ones her mother had brought from L.A. and never unpacked, so she assumed it would be a relatively easy job for her – and Dawn, once she came home – to give them a quick once-over and throw them out.

She was wrong.

Long after the plumbers had packed up and left, the two of them were still sitting on the cold floor of the basement, surrounded by the stink of wet cardboard and dead demon, slowly going through the boxes Tara and Willow had carefully filled with the contents of Joyce’s bedroom.

Choosing which of her belongings were salvageable had been like losing Joyce all over again.

But it was cathartic, too, because each earring and scarf and knickknack prompted a memory to share.

Buffy had been so focussed on defeating Glory and keeping Dawn safe in the immediate aftermath of Joyce’s death that they had never talked about her. While Dawn had come to understand, much later, at the time she’d been convinced it was because Buffy didn’t care.

It was still difficult for Buffy to participate in conversation, but she let Dawn’s stories flow around her while they worked and she was  _there_ , present in mind and body, which was all that Dawn really needed from her.

Spike kept his distance throughout, mostly sitting in the kitchen listening to their reminiscences, grateful Buffy was finally allowing herself to unbend a little around Dawn.

When Tara, Willow and the icy silence between them came through the front door, Dawn immediately fled to her room to avoid Willow.

Following the routine he’d had over the summer, Spike took one of Buffy’s hands in his and said, “C’mon, sweet. Let’s go out and kill something.”

And so Willow and Tara didn’t even have the distraction of other people to soften the tension between them.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

It was very late indeed when Buffy and Spike squelched through the back door, covered from head to toe with some sort of virulent green demon gore.

To their surprise, Dawn was sitting at the breakfast bar eating a bowl of cereal. “Ewwwww,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “What  _is_  that stuff? It’s B-movie-esque in its grossness.”

“Gorsschikt blood,” Spike said, glaring at Buffy. “ _Someone_  thought it would be a good idea to cut off its head. You’d think, by now, she’d understand about SODDING ARTERIAL SPRAY!”

“Well SOMEONE ELSE could’ve warned me Gross-ick demons don’t DUST when you kill them!”

Spike rolled his eyes. Buffy made a noise of inarticulate frustration, throwing up her hands and in the process flinging some of the goop at the ceiling.

All three of them watched the clump of green vileness cling for a second, and then fall down onto the breakfast bar with a thick plop, only just missing Dawn's cereal.

“That’s gonna stai-ain,” Dawn said sweetly.

Buffy glowered at her.

Dawn’s eyes widened, a surge of hope racing through her. That was … this was almost  _normal_.

She caught Spike watching her and grinned.

“’S late, Niblet. What’re you still doin’ up?”

Dawn looked down at her feet, mumbling, “Couldn’t sleep ‘til I knew you got back okay.”

Spike made an exasperated face, but Dawn could tell he was only pretending not to be pleased.

“I’m gonna, um, go shower,” Buffy said. She gingerly touched her congealing hair and shuddered. Carefully stepping out of her boots, she started tiptoeing down the hallway, trying to keep her gore-soaked jeans from touching the carpet.

“You want me to grab you some clothes so you don’t track goo of doom all over the living room?” Dawn asked.

Spike looked slightly panicky. “Uhhh, ta, pet, but’ve got some clothes in the … er, bathroom.”

Dawn looked at him. Hard. “I didn’t see any of your clothes in there five minutes ago.”

Spike shrugged. He wasn’t meeting her eyes.

“Riiiight,” Dawn said, nodding sagely. “You’re hiding something.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Not!”

“God! You’re such a child!” Dawn said, giving him a shove. Then she squawked, because her hand came away covered in demon yuck.

Spike laughed, flicking his fingers and shaking himself to lob more fluorescent gore at her.

“Ew! Ew!  _Ew_!” Dawn shrieked.

That stopped him – Dawn’s shrieking  _hurt_.

Dawn opted for bed rather than helping him clean up afterwards, as he’d suspected she would.

She didn’t realise until after she was under the covers that he’d never explained why he didn’t need a change of clothes.

Spike might be a terrible liar, but he had scary powers of distraction when he didn’t want to talk about something.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy’s hairdryer was going as Spike finally started up the stairs, but it stopped almost as soon as he reached the top. As he passed her room, the door inched open, just wide enough for her to pass him out a pair of black sweatpants.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

It was almost dawn by the time Willow felt confident everyone in the house was finally asleep.

She thought the shower would  _never_  stop running.

She eased out of bed, and crept downstairs, her bag of Lethe’s bramble clutched in her hand.

Giles was snoring away peacefully, albeit not entirely naturally.

Carefully and quietly, Willow moved the fireplace gate out of the way, and knelt at the hearth. She put the bag down, and pulled out four sprigs. Striking a match, she lit them and laid them down.

The smoke smelled truly awful, and it was very thick for such a tiny fire. Willow frowned, worrying suddenly that the smoke or its smell might still be noticeable in the morning.

_In for a penny…._

She pulled out one more sprig for good measure and tossed it in. Sitting back on her heels, she concentrated on the exact moment she wanted to return to, and began the incantation.

“For my family this I char, let Lethe's Bramble do its chore. Purge their minds of memories grim, all five months’ pains from slights and sins.”

She pulled a solid white crystal out of the pocket of her robe, and touched it to the burning herbs. It glowed pale grey.

“When the fire goes out. When the crystal turns black. The spell will be cast. Tabula rasa. Tabula rasa. Tabula rasa.”

Willow watched the smoke for a while, wanting to make sure it really was going up the chimney, then put the crystal in her robe pocket and dragged the gate back across the fireplace.

She never noticed that she’d knocked the bag of Lethe’s Bramble into the hearth with the gate. Before she was even halfway up the stairs, it had caught light and started burning.

Willow got back into bed, heart whole and full, despite the fact that she and Tara had done nothing but fight all day and Tara was now lying rigidly on the far side of the bed. For the first time in weeks, she was confident that everything really would be better in the morning.

An hour later, all the embers had burned out, and Willow’s crystal had turned black.

Eight people fell into deeper, enchanted sleeps.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Revello Drive wakes up_

The beep of the answering machine echoed in the quiet of 1630 Revello Drive, powerless to wake its sleeping inhabitants.

 _“Hello Ms Summers, it’s Mrs Stevens from Sunnydale Middle School. I’m just calling to let you know that since this is now the third time Dawn has missed classes this year, we will be required to report her truancy. If she_  is  _unwell, do please let us know as soon as possible, and make sure Dawn brings in a doctor’s note when she returns. Thanks so much. Bye!”_

Then again, a few hours later.

 _“I haven’t heard from anyone since Saturday and Spike is not answering his phone. Has something happened? Please call me back.”_  A pause.  _“This is Bohdan Kosík.”_

Closely followed by:

 _“Buffy? It’s me. If you’re there, could you pick up?”_  An inaudible count to ten.  _“Okay, I guess you’re not there. There's a rumour going 'round that the Order of Taraka is after Spike. I don't know who the hell that idiot's pissed off ... but I just _–_  I thought you’d wanna know. So … yeah. Call me. Or, you know, don’t. But….”_ A sigh. _“I’m just gonna hang up now._ _Be safe."_  A pause. _"_ _I love you."_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The girl slowly blinked her eyes open. She felt deliciously warm. But … not at all sure where she was. Or  _who_ she was.

_Okay. Kinda scary._

She tried to get out of bed, but found herself immobilised: long, strong arms wrapped themselves more tightly around her, while rough, calloused hands stopped their lazy caresses to splay out and stop her from pulling away.

It surprised her that none of this made her feel trapped.

As soon as she stopped struggling, the thigh nestled between hers lifted to hook an ankle around her calf and tug her in closer.

She giggled. Then bit back a moan as she felt the gentlest brush of soft lips against the back of her ear.

She sobered at the rapidly growing erection pressing into her. Waking up in a strange bed with a strange man was so not of the good. But … she wasn’t drunk – didn’t think she’d been drugged, either. Her head was clear, and she didn’t feel sick.

She was also wearing what felt suspiciously like flannel pyjamas.

 _Okay. So aside from the loss of memory, do I feel safe?_ She thought for a moment.  _Yes. I feel completely safe._

She looked around at the bedroom. It was so obviously  _not_  a man’s room.  _So this can’t be_ his  _bed. Maybe it’s_ mine _. Only … it’s kinda teenager-y, and I feel older than that._  

She started looking for photos.

Then she realised she had no idea what she looked like.

_This is so weird._

A girl with blonde hair was in most of the photos she could see. She shifted against the arm she was using as a pillow to look at her hair.  _Colour sorta matches._

A half-growl, half-purr sounded in her ear.

 _Maybe_ he  _knows who we are._

“Hey, Mystery Man, wake up.” She started moving, trying to twist herself around to look at him.

Apparently turning around was more acceptable than getting out of bed, because he helped this time: loosening his hold on her upper body and curling one hand around her bottom hip and tugging gently while she struggled to roll over in the barely four inches of space she had between the edge of the bed and his naked chest.

The girl forgot how to breathe for a second when she finally saw him.

 _So pretty._  She licked her lips.  _Even if he is all sunburnt and looks like he’s gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson._

Her movements had increased the amount of space between them just enough to get her arms free. She pushed her bottom arm up and under his head, so it was no longer pressed between their bodies. He arched his neck to rub his cheek against her, pushing at the fabric to get to her skin.

She raised her other hand to lightly trace his cheekbones with her fingertips, then cupped one side of his face. When she brushed his lower lip with her thumb, he turned to kiss the inside of her palm.

“Mmmmm. You smell good,” the man murmured sleepily, pressing his nose and lips against the inside of her wrist and nuzzling.

She giggled again, pulling her hand away. The man, blindly trying to follow her wrist, bumped his nose into hers. His eyes blinked open.

She didn’t think eyes could be so blue. “Like cornflowers,” she said softly.

“Mornin’ Beautiful,” he rumbled, his lips hovering over hers, tickling her with his breath. He smiled.

_Must’ve done somethin’ bloody impressive to deserve all this. Fuck, she smells amazin’._

He peppered her face and neck with kisses, drinking in the scent of her skin.

His smile reminded her of a little boy in a candy store. Awed ... but hungry.

“I don’t think it’s morning anymore,” she said.

Instead of answering, he started sucking and teasing at her lips, his hand leaving her shoulder to trail upwards, his fingers tangling in her hair. He swallowed her breath, his tongue tracing the inside of her mouth like he owned it, owned her.

For all her loss of memory, the girl was sure no one else had ever kissed her like this. It was like with every stroke of his tongue he was touching her somewhere else. She raised her hand to his face, stroking along his jaw and up to his ear with her thumb.

He started rocking gently against her, one hand guiding her into his kisses and one pulling her hip against him to keep her from falling off the bed. He moved down along her jaw, then sucked her earlobe into his mouth. Letting it go with a soft pop, he whispered “Delicious,” before pressing a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her neck, then gently closing his teeth around the skin and sucking.

The girl let out a breathy moan. Whatever he was doing to her neck seemed to be going straight to her clit. It was electric and soothing all at the same time.

 _More_ , he thought desperately, moving his hand from her hip to her bottom, cupping one cheek to pull her closer. Then he stroked his hand down to just above her knee, and closed his fingers around her thigh to drag her leg over his hip, pressing her tightly against his straining erection.  _Better._

She started running her foot along the inside of his thigh, scrunching her toes in the soft cotton of his trousers, and felt him twitch between her legs.

“My beautiful girl,” he crooned into her neck, his words as much a caress as his lips, his breath gliding over her increasingly sensitised skin.

"Ummm,” the girl breathed, arching to give him better access.

“Too many clothes,” he groaned into the hollow of her throat, making her skin buzz. He was running his hand up her pyjama-clad thigh, along her hip, and under her shirt at her waist. When he was finally in direct contact with her skin, he stretched out his fingers, and began teasing his thumb along her ribcage just below her breast.

She whimpered as his thumb grazed slightly higher, making her nipple snap to attention.

He unlatched from her neck with a sigh, his breath making her wet skin tingle. He pulled back to look at her again. His pupils had expanded, almost eclipsing the blue.

The girl let out a breathy gasp. “W-was gonna ask you something,” she panted. “Forget now.”

He let out a tiny whoop of delight, diving in to recapture her mouth with his, distracting both of them. “Makin’ you forget your own name, am I?” he said finally, in between nibbles at her lips.

“Do you remember yours?” she asked.

He froze, his eyes suddenly flooded with panic, and she could feel him softening. “I – I’ve no idea.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Across the hall, another girl drifted awake in a big bed not sure where she was … or  _who_  she was.

Then she realised she wasn’t alone.

She grinned.  _Maybe I got lucky last night._  Then she faltered. There was a lot of space between her and Miss Sexy Pants over there.

_Maybe we’re just friends…._

But oh, she was  _so tempting_. All that red hair streaking out on the pillow, almost glowing in the late afternoon sun….

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The man forced himself to be still. “Do – do you want to stop?” His voice was hoarse with need. _Stupid git! You think you can stop_ now _?!_  He stroked her hair away from her face, lingering to trace the outline of one ear.

She looked down at his naked chest, each muscle perfectly defined.  _Lickable._ “Nuh-uh,” she said, feeling how tense and  _hard_  he was beneath her. She darted out her tongue to make ever-smaller circles around one perfect pec, stopping just short of his nipple.

“Oh god,” he moaned. Forcing his eyes open, staring into hers, he asked, “You sure, pet?” It  _hurt_  holding back now. “Don’ want you regrettin’ things later.”

“You’re sweet.” She smiled, slowly inching up his body, kissing and licking her way to his neck. His eyes fluttered shut as soon as she reached his jugular.

He whimpered, his body quivering beneath her. “Please, please don’ stop doin’ that.”

“Somebody has a sensitive spot,” she murmured, twining her fingers in his hair to position him for better access. She licked a single long stroke along the vein, and he shuddered, his hands pushing her bottom down while he arched up into her.

It felt to him like a very different vein.

As she alternated between licking and kissing his throat and just under his jaw, he started losing control, his hips thrusting harder against her.

“Direct line, huh?” she murmured, letting her lips stroke him as she spoke. Then she stopped.

He let out a desperate, almost-pain sound at the loss.

She sat up, straddling him, rocking slightly to get into position. She could feel his cock, thick and hard and heavy, between her legs. She felt so powerful, seeing the effect she had on the gorgeous, gorgeous man in her bed.

"Oh, but you’re cruel,” he moaned, forcing himself to open his eyes, running his hands along the outside of her thighs.

She pouted at him, her eyes dancing. “Wanna talk,” she said.

“‘M listenin’,” he said, trying to appear serious. She rewarded him by tracing his collarbone with her fingers, flicking light touches against his neck with every stroke, watching as he bit down on his lower lip, trying not to react to what she was doing.

“Given our oh-so-attractive sleepwear,” she said, scrunching up her nose in a moue of distaste, “I think it’s a safe bet we’re together – like long-term together – whoever we are.”

He finally grabbed her hand away from his neck, entwining her fingers with his, then bringing it to his lips. “Couple of old marrieds, yeah?”

“These are so very  _not_ the sort of clothes I would let a hot guy see me in,” she said, voice getting slightly breathy as he sucked her middle finger into his mouth and started stroking it with his tongue.

Releasing her finger with a soft pop, he tucked his tongue behind his teeth and turned his grin to a leer. “Think I’m hot, do you?”

The girl nodded. “Oh, yeah.” Her eyes shone.

He went serious, staring into her eyes. “Then I’m a lucky, lucky man.” He sat up to claim her mouth again. This time, his lips were comforting, loving. Like he was stroking her heart. He breathed her in, almost giddy from the scent and taste and touch.

All their urgency was suddenly gone, replaced with a feeling of …  _coming_   _home_.

_My girl._

He held her face with both hands, staring into her eyes for a moment before kissing the tip of her nose and lying back down, grinning. He left his hands resting on her shoulders so he could play with her hair. “Reckon you’d be stunnin’ dressed in a sack.”

They just stared at each other for a few seconds, grinning like idiots. For all their memory loss, being together felt so comfortable, so safe.

He craned his neck to look around the room, thrusting up teasingly.

She closed her eyes, rubbing back against him.

“Don’ reckon we live here together,” he said. “But has to’ve been yours once upon a time – pictures of you everywhere.”

“Is that really what I look like?” she asked, frowning.

“Nah. They’re all at least a year old, mostly older.” He drew out a strand of her hair so she could see it. “Hair’s longer now.” He let the strand drop and started tracing the planes of her face with his fingers. “An’ you’re … leaner. Honed.” He frowned up at her. “Don’ look altogether healthy, pet.” He gently cupped her face with both hands, tracing the circles under her eyes with his thumbs, then ran his hands languidly up and down her body. Even through the flannel pyjamas, he could feel her bones pushing up through her skin. “Need to start feedin’ you better.”

“We don’t have the same accent. Maybe I’ve brought you home to meet my parents.” She stopped suddenly. “Oh god, what if my parents are next door or something!” She could feel blood rushing to her cheeks.

He didn’t think it was possible, but her blush made him even harder.

“They’re the ones letting us sleep in your bedroom, pet.” He grinned. “I say we give’m an earful.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

At first he thought he must be hung over. He was lying on a supremely uncomfortable sofa; his mouth tasted of old socks; and he felt gritty and grimy.

But there was no queasiness, and although his head hurt, the ache seemed to be limited to the area around the goose egg he found on his temple.

_Perhaps concussion-related memory loss?_

_But that only happens in films...._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The girl began running her fingers through the man’s hair, twisting and pulling on his curls. “Such a bad boy.”

He stretched and rubbed into her caresses like a cat.

“Bet you’re just a big ol’ softy on the inside.”

“What makes you say that?” he said, his voice thick and deep, almost like a purr.

“You’re totally rockin’ that bad-ass look with your bleached hair and that black eye, but no one with curls this soft could ever be hard on the inside.”

He closed his eyes briefly, luxuriating in the feel of her fingers.

“Oh, I’m plenty hard, kitten,” he said, half-opening his eyes and propelling his hips up against her again. “An’ you’re  _still_ wearin’ too many clothes.”

She giggled, then drew her arms up to slip her pyjama top over her head and off with a little shimmy.

The man’s eyes locked onto her bared breasts, glazing over with lust, conversation completely forgotten. He stroked his fingers up her sides to cup her breasts. “Perfect,” he breathed.

The girl arched her back, pushing herself into his hands.

He sat up, bending her backwards to take one of her breasts into his mouth, sucking on her nipple and gently closing his teeth around it. He cupped long fingers around the other breast, circling her areola with his thumb. The girl shifted, trying to uncurl her legs from beneath her to wrap around him. She let out a yelp as she overbalanced and they both toppled sideways.

He laughed, rich and joyous, as they shifted around, untangling themselves, until they were lying on their sides, facing each other.

“No more laughing, mister,” she said, slightly breathless and thoroughly embarrassed.

“You’re beautiful when you squeak,” he said, eyes crinkled and still shining with laughter.

Then he pounced – eliciting another squeak – to pin her flat on the bed. He straddled her thighs, and leaned in to touch his lips to the skin just beneath her ear, before slowly kissing and nibbling his way down her neck. He lost himself in her breasts for a few minutes, then continued his sensual attack along her ribs and waist until his mouth was level with the waistband of her pyjama bottoms. He moved to lie beside her again, then, with a low growl, he grabbed the elastic with his teeth, and yanked her trousers past her hips.

She collapsed into giggles when he started sputtering out the flannel.

He kissed his way back up to her belly, lapping at her skin to get the last of the fuzz from his tongue. “Much better,” he said finally, releasing her arms so he could lift her legs up off the bed. He pulled her pyjamas the rest of the way off – draping her legs over his body in the process. She felt lazy and loved and excited and  _oh, so wet_.

She wondered if it was always like this between them. She really hoped it was.

He inhaled deeply, groaning slightly as he let the breath go. “You smell  _so good_.” He propped himself up on his elbow to rearrange her legs. When he was done, one knee was resting on his bottom shoulder with his right arm holding it in place, while the other was draped over his waist.

His long, strong fingers held her thigh in position as he started kissing along the smooth, sensitive skin towards her pelvis. “So beautiful, all opened up like a blossoming flower,” he whispered, leaning into her, his breath cool and shivery. “My sweet peach.” He licked his lips in anticipation, then swiped his tongue along her slit.

The girl whimpered.

“Feel good, kitten?” he whispered, his mouth and breath stroking at her lips. Then he licked her again, going deeper and higher, kissing her inner lips and swirling all the way around her clit but never quite touching it. He raised his head to look up at her. “Fuck, you taste like heaven.”

She arched her back slightly and, frowning, pushed her fingers into his hair to encourage him back down.

He laughed. “Your willing slave obeys.” He spread her open with his left hand, while his right pulled her trembling thighs even farther apart. He started nibbling and licking all around her clit, still not touching.

She moaned.

Then he sucked it into his mouth and she nearly arched off the bed.

“Oh!” She felt like she was dancing on a livewire. Jittery and buttery and like she couldn’t take any more but never wanted it to stop.

Continuing to suck gently, he slid a finger inside her, curling it upwards, stroking, searching. It took a while, but when her head started moving from side to side, he knew he’d found the right spot.

Her breathing changed then. And every time he pushed –  _right there, god!_  – a wave of pleasure seemed to run through her whole body.

He took his other hand away from her leg, placing it over her lower abdomen and pressing down, thrusting his finger up against the weight of his hand, and letting his head rest just where her pelvis joined her thigh.

The extra weight deepened and intensified everything. She felt fuller, and her hips started moving against him without her meaning them to.

“Oh god,” she breathed.

He slipped a second finger into her and angled his head upwards, watching her eyes shut tight, mouth open, every muscle in her face tense as her spine bowed rigid. “Talk to me, kitten. Tell me how it feels.” His voice was vibrating through her, his breath adding yet more stimulation.

“G-gah!” she squeaked.

Grinning, he went back to teasing her clit.

He heard her breathing speed up, started feeling her muscles fluttering, so he bit down and held, his fingers still, pressed up towards his hand.

Her world went white as the orgasm raced through her, something about the position of his hands sending extra shockwaves with each spasm.

She was making the sexiest sound in the back of her throat. He knew he’d never witnessed anything so perfect and beautiful and  _oh how I ache for you_.

As her inner muscles slowed in their movements and she started fidgeting from overstimulation, he released her, first licking his fingers clean, then pressing his face back against her and gently thrusting in and out with his tongue.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

 _Someone is_ definitely _having sex._

The girl paced back and forth across what she assumed was her bedroom, hoping against hope that it wasn’t her parents next door.

 _That'd mean therapy for_ years _. Parental sex is so gross...._

She felt a pang when she realised she couldn't picture her parents' faces. Or her own.

She kept pacing, not sure whether to feel safe or terrified that her door was barred on the inside.

 

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The girl tried to make words, but nothing seemed to be working anymore. She patted limply at the man's head, her whole body loose and boneless. Aftershocks were coursing through her system and every muscle was weak and trembling.

“Up,” she finally got out.

After one last, languorous kiss, he crawled slowly up her body until they were lying face-to-face. He twined himself around her, tangling their limbs together.

She tried to speak again, but it came out so garbled even she wasn’t sure what she was trying to say. She felt drunk.

“Could happily spend the rest of my life jus’ makin’ you come,” he said. “You  _glow_.”

A wicked gleam came into her eyes as she rediscovered her powers of speech. Brushing her lips against his throat, she said, “You’re still wearing too many clothes….”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's in a name?

Finding out that her name was Dawn didn’t miraculously bring her memories flooding back like she’d hoped it would.

But her unsuccessful search for a diary did lead her to something interesting: a heavy leather-bound book hidden under her mattress.

Putting on headphones to block out the sexcapades next door, Dawn started to read.

_Into every generation a slayer is born: one girl in all the world, a chosen one. She alone will wield the strength and skill to fight the vampires, demons and the forces of darkness; to stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their number. She is the Slayer._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The woman was disoriented when she first woke up, and that made her cranky. So when the boy in her bed yelped at the accidental meeting of her forehead and his temple, she was disinclined to apologise

But since he seemed equally disinclined to wake up – grunting and rolling over to burrow further into his pillow – it didn’t seem to matter overly much.

She watched him twitch and shift in his sleep for a while. His grunts and snuffles grew in volume and frequency until they became loud, police-siren-like snores.

Mentally rolling her eyes, she sat up in bed and looked around the room. An overflowing laundry basket poured out from the closet door. The floor was covered in so much  _stuff_  she couldn’t even see whether it was carpet or wood.

She shuddered.  _I put up with_  this _? The sex has to be some kind of incredible to make it worthwhile._

She frowned.  _Wait, how come I_ can’t remember the sex _?_

She gasped.  _I don’t even know what I look like!_

She got out of bed – idly noticing her feet were on carpet, not wood – and went to examine herself in the full-length mirror.

_At least I’m pretty, whoever I am._

She was really quite relieved by that.

Then she noticed the very large box under the bed.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The redheaded girl let out a yip of shock. Her skin was glowing. Like  _actually emitting light_  glowing.

Her equally lustrous lover beamed up at her, rubbing her cheek against her thigh. “It’s magic.  _We’re_  magic.” She put her fingers to her lips and slowly licked them clean.

“M-magic? But that’s not  _real_ ,” the redhead said hesitantly, her breathing still a little ragged.

The blonde snorted with mirth. “Of course it’s real. We’ve been raising magic together since we woke up.” She stared up at the oh-so-sexy redhead and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Wanna raise some more?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The woman finally lost patience with the boy’s snoring. But he wouldn’t respond to her perfectly polite requests to be quiet. Then he absolutely refused to roll onto his side, no matter how hard she pushed. So of course she was reduced to repeatedly elbowing him in the ribs until he woke up.

He was now sitting on the other side of the bed, seething in angry silence, while they both stared anywhere and everywhere but at each other.

Finally, she said, “We could have sex.”

The boy’s jaw dropped. “What is  _wrong_  with you? We have no idea who we are! We could be brain damaged or dying of poisonous gas or something!”

“It's my hair, isn't it? If it was darker you'd want to have sex with me.” She examined a tendril, pouting. Then she looked over at him, eyes narrowing. “You’re not gay, are you?”

He goggled at her. “My god! Full of yourself much?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

For the third time, they heard the snap of a wooden slat breaking.

The girl froze. “Floor?” she asked breathlessly.

The man moaned.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Maybe we could watch a movie?” the boy asked tentatively.

The woman shrugged. “I guess that’s better than sitting here in awkward silence while we don’t have sex.”

“Could you go thirty seconds without bringing up sex? Please?”

“I don’t understand why it bothers you so much! Based on all the toys and restraints in the box under our bed, we have a very active sex life. Is it so wrong of me to want to reconnect in that way?”

“YES!” he snapped. “We have no idea who we are! It’s terrifying! Not sexy! Only a crazy person would want to have sex right now!”

“Watching a movie is just ignoring the problem and hoping it’ll go away on its own! How is that any less crazy?”

“I need a drink.”

She frowned in thought.  _Something about drinking…._ “ID!” she screeched, finally. “Our ID will tell us who we are!”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“You’re wearin’ my only clean shirt, y’know,” the man said petulantly.

The girl stuck out her tongue at him.

He started kissing her skin where the hemline of the black cotton t-shirt brushed against her thighs.

“Hey!” she said, giggling. “You said you’d be less distracted if I put something on!”

He pushed the shirt aside to gently bite down on her bare hip. “An’ you thought wearin’ my shirt would be less distracting?” He tsked. “Silly Buffy.”

“But you  _need_  a  _name_ ,” she whined as he slid his hands up and under the shirt to cup her breasts.

“So name me,” he said. “ _After_  I’ve ravished you.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander belched. Loudly.

Anya glared at him.

He was on his fourth beer now. He was hoping that if he kept drinking, things would get better. It hadn’t worked so far. But he could still hope.

There was a  _lot_  of beer in their fridge.

He liked sex as much as the next guy – more, maybe – but he  _had no idea who he was_. He didn’t know how he felt about Anya, or how she felt about him. What if he’d forgotten how to do it right? All that stuff in the box under the bed looked really  _complicated_. Worse, what if he couldn’t get her off? She’d probably yell at him. She was scary when she yelled. There was this vein that kinda popped out in her forehead and her eyes got all flashy. Like death rays.

But he didn’t want to admit how scared he was – or worse, how  _soft_  he was – so he kept on blustering, telling her how it was  _her_  that was weird and wrong for wanting what she wanted. He kept hoping she’d just drop it before he was forced to say something  _really_  awful. He just had to make sure she never knew how he was feeling. He knew he couldn’t handle her having even less respect for him than she already did.

_Oh look, time for beer number five…._

Anya thumbed through the address book she’d found in her purse – again – but its contents hadn’t changed. Six entries: R. Giles, Xander Harris, The Magic Box, Willow Rosenberg, Spike No-Last-Name, and Buffy Summers.

What kind of awful, depressing,  _lonely_  life did she have that she only knew five people?

Maybe the Magic Box would have some answers. According to her business cards, she was “proprietor” there. Or at least some indication that she had a life outside of Xander and their apartment.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The blonde girl’s face was serious. “Everything feels  _off_  somehow, like our energy’s being blocked, disrupted somehow. Can’t you feel it?”

The redhead concentrated. Somewhere very far away, she could almost hear what sounded like the baseline from a party three streets over. It made her feel kind of buzzy and floaty. Not unpleasant, but….

“I wonder what’s causing it,” the blonde said thoughtfully, slipping out of bed.

The redhead stopped concentrating on the far-away noise, and watched her naked lover look through the contents of the room, picking up and putting down books and candles and crystals. “Are you a – a witch?” she asked finally.

The blonde frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe … I seem to know things. Hey look!” She brought one of the books back to the bed. It looked like a recipe book – one of those ones designed to have clippings and cards and handwritten notes added to it.

In the front flyleaf was written, “For Tara, because the magic will live on in you. Love Mom.”

“I guess I’m Tara,” Tara said, a smile lighting up her face.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Knowing his name made Rupert Giles feel better, more in control.

But his ID just raised more questions. His California drivers’ license had a Sunnydale address, but his British passport had an address in Bath. His wallet revealed a mixture of British and American cards, a work ID for somewhere in London, and a couple of business cards identifying him as the proprietor of The Magic Box in Sunnydale.

His suitcase tags had the same Bath address as his passport, so he presumed he must have very recently returned to the UK after some time living in California.

But why would he move? And why come back when he hadn’t even been gone long enough to change his drivers’ license?

The next of kin listed in his passport was his “business partner”, Anya Jenkins, care of the Magic Box. No one would pick such an impersonal connection if they had other options. So he must not have any living family.

Well, either that or his business partner was more than just his business partner.

He was suddenly assaulted by the image of some hennaed New Age harridan surrounded by a cloud of patchouli oil or some other awful incense fragrance. He shuddered.  _No, definitely just a business partner._

But if he had no family and all the indications of being able to easily afford a hotel, why was he sleeping on someone else’s sofa? And in a house that looked as if a hurricane had gone through it recently?

Then he discovered the trunk full of weapons.

Not a hurricane.  _A fight._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Oh, gross!’ Dawn shrieked. “There's bags of  _blood_  in the fridge!”

John winced. Whatever it was he’d done to his head, he seemed particularly sensitive to noise – or at least, particularly sensitive to  _Dawn’s_  noise. That girl had a shriek that could shatter glass. “Maybe I was gettin’ ready to make black pudding?”

Rupert’s eyes widened in shock. “You have no idea what your name is, yet you can remember how to make  _your own_  black pudding?”

John shrugged, going back to his hunt through the cupboards for dinner ideas.

“Ewww,” Dawn said. She gave John an affectionate shove. “Told you he was probably a short-order cook in some dive. With no ID and his looks? No way he has a  _real_  job.”

“Doubt anyone here in salad country would appreciate black puddin’,” John said, giving Dawn a good-natured shove back. He grinned. “Pro’ly bought it specially to make Gilesy here feel more at home.”

“My name is Rupert,” Rupert sighed.

“Sure, Giles. Whatever you say.” John laughed, shutting the final cupboard door and turning to Buffy. “Looks like we’ve got all the makings for a mole poblano. Fancy that, kitten?”

“I vote chocolate,” said Buffy. “Ix-nay on the blood.”

“I’m  _so hungry_ ,” John said, absently rubbing his belly. “Feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

“Perhaps you haven’t,” Rupert said. “We really must discover what’s happened to us.”

“ _After_  we eat,” Buffy said. She prodded John. “You’d almost think a wild animal was in the room, the way his stomach’s been growling.”

“The most obvious next step would seem to be a hospital,” Rupert said. “We’re all a bit banged up – even if John and I are the only ones with head injuries. There  _must_  be some sort of medical explanation for all of this.”

“But  _real_  amnesia is nothing like this!” Dawn said, exasperated. “This is … this is a soap opera disease! I think it’s some kind of magic spell.”

Rupert snorted. “ _A magic spell_? Magic is all balderdash and chicanery.”

“No, it isn’t,” a new voice said. “Magic is real.”

They all turned to see Tara standing in the kitchen doorway, Willow hovering in the hallway behind her.

“Who the hell are you?” Buffy asked, eyes flinty. She’d been expecting to see the older woman from all the photos with her and Dawn – the one they’d assumed was their mother – not these  _girls_  who looked younger than her.

Willow shifted from one foot to the other. The tiny blonde in the kitchen looked kind of scary-aggressive.

“I’m Tara,” Tara said, “and this is Willow. We’ve got the third bedroom upstairs.” She looked around carefully. “You’ve all lost your memories, too, haven’t you?”

“H-how did you know that?” Rupert asked.

Tara smiled. “Well, I  _hope_  we’d have recognised each other otherwise.”

Rupert looked embarrassed.

“But you also all seem to have the same weird disruptions to your energy as Willow and me,” Tara continued.

In the ensuing stunned silence, Dawn said, “I found a book this morning that I think everyone needs to see. I’m not sure it has answers, exactly, but it might explain why we all live together.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“So d’you think Dawn really is a Slaughterer, or whatever that book called it?” John asked, readjusting the bags of dirty laundry he was carrying.

“I guess,” Buffy said, a little wistfully. “I mean, the book was in her room. And I get the impression they don’t live very long, so the rest of us are probably too old now.” Buffy shivered.  _I don’t want Dawnie to die. We’ve had too much death already._

She stumbled over a stretch of uneven pavement, and one of her bags fell off her shoulder and slammed against him.

“Christ! Keep that away from me!” John practically howled, dropping three of his bags in his rush to get away, covering his face against the stench. “I think it’s burning away nose cartilage.”

“You big baby. It’s just a  _little_  smelly,” Buffy laughed. “God, Dawn’s so messy. Bet no one else would leave all those gore-soaked clothes to stink out the bathroom.  _I’d_  have left them to soak overnight.”

“Just keep it away from me,” John said, picking up his fallen bags, managing to keep one hand over his nose and mouth. He moved so he was upwind of Buffy. “Why did you volunteer us for this?” he whined.

“Because you and Rupert have no clean clothes and we’re not  _special_  like the others,” Buffy said matter-of-factly, if a little resentfully. “We’re not witches and we don’t have superpowers, so we can cook and do laundry.” She laughed. “Besides, if we’d stayed we’d have had to do research like one of those Witness guys.” She scrunched up her face in distaste.

John tucked his tongue behind his teeth and leered at her. “Can imagine you in research mode: glasses perched on the tip of your nose, hair all bound up in a messy bun. Maybe a pencil skirt. Dead sexy.”

“Someone has librarian fantasies,” Buffy said, giggling.

“ _Buffy_  fantasies, more like,” he retorted.

She examined him for a minute. “I can’t see you in glasses, somehow.”

John started laughing. “Ol’ Gilesy looked about ready to swallow his tongue when you said he seemed like an ideal candidate for Wanker-General. Still surprised he didn’ run for the hills then an’ there.”

“ _Watcher!_  That’s it, not Witness.” Buffy giggled. “He still thinks we’re going to find some sort of reasonable scientific explanation for all of this.”

“Ah, Dawn’s right – this is nothing like medical amnesia. An' the idea of magic feels  _true_ , somehow.”

Buffy nodded, then shivered. “I just … I wonder who hates us so much they’d take our memories away.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

When he arrived at the Magic Box, Rupert was shocked and dismayed to find a table full of books and scribbled notes on how to protect someone from magical interference. He felt sick when he realised it was all in his handwriting.

So not only had he been dangerously mistaken in his insistence that magic didn’t exist, but it looked like he really was a – what was it Dawn had called it? Her Observer?

Just then, the bell above the front door jangled.

He’d locked the door behind him, so this must be Anya Jenkins!  _Either that or whoever erased our memories is returning to do something worse…._

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of the stunningly beautiful blonde standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing in my store?” Anya asked harshly. “It’s closed. You can’t buy anything.”

He bristled. “ _Your_  store! This is  _my_  store.”

Anya reeled back in shock. “You can’t  _possibly_  be R. Giles,” she said, disbelief evident in her voice. She’d expected her partner to be a white-haired old goat with tufts of hair coming out of his ears and a hearing problem. But this man, with his high cheekbones and dimpled chin, perfect posture and rumpled suit….

Rupert sighed. “Let me guess: your name is Anya Jenkins and you’ve been having some problems with your memory?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

It turned out John’s domestic skills started and ended in the kitchen – Buffy only just managed to stop him from boil washing everything – but all the clothes and bedding got into a machine eventually.

“I guess now we wait,” Buffy said, sighing.

John pursed his lips. “Might have some ideas ‘bout how to keep us occupied,” he drawled.

“Oh yeah?” she said, eyes dancing in anticipation, as she walked towards where John lounged on a wooden bench.

Then they heard the door to the laundromat opening. The man outside was so tall and wide, he had to duck his head and twist his shoulders just to fit through the doorway.

When he saw John, his whole face lit up in an ear-to-ear grin.

Buffy gasped. Every tooth in his head had been filed down to points.

“Spike!” the behemoth said, his voice so deep they could almost feel the vibrations.

Then in a move that seemed impossibly fast given his size, he launched himself at John.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Some crises are averted, others not so much_

When the very large man with the very scary teeth tackled John to the floor, Buffy froze. He looked like he should be in a public service announcement for the dangers of ‘roid rage: crazy eyes, shaved head, covered in tattoos. She was terrified.

She couldn’t even  _see_  John once they hit the floor; his attacker was just that big. But she could hear a wet, gurgling sound, like someone being choked, and a dull thudding, like a head striking concrete.

Then, suddenly, like a switch flipping in her head, Buffy’s fear turned to fury, and John could feel nothing but cool air on his body.

He pushed himself up on his elbows to see the giant flying through the air and colliding headfirst with the wall – thrown by itty-bitty Buffy Summers.

John and Buffy stared at each other.

“What did you do to Mr Teeth?” he asked hoarsely.

“I don’t know.” A wide, proud, grin spread across Buffy’s face. “But it was cool.”

Mr Teeth struggled back to his feet, shaking his head to clear it of plaster. Ignoring Buffy, he went straight back to where John still lay on the floor and kicked out at his head.

To John’s surprise, he was able to dodge the kick and jump to his feet in what felt like one fluid movement. He’d gathered he was in good shape, but … this?  _Definitely not just a cook_.

The giant roared and came at him again, ducking his head and gnashing his teeth. John gave him a Glasgow kiss that didn’t land quite right – he assumed – because it hurt him a hell of a lot more than it seemed to hurt Mr Teeth. John fell back to the ground, howling in pain, feeling like someone had just shoved a red-hot poker into his brain.

“John!” Buffy cried.

Mr Teeth grinned. “You’re pathetic,” he growled, kicking John in the ribs as he writhed on the floor. “Impotent. Just like everybody says.”

“Hey, Ugly!” Buffy said. “Stay away from my boyfriend!”

He turned, confusion flitting across his brutish face. “I got no beef with you. Walk the fuck away.”

Buffy smiled sweetly up at him. “Oh, but I have a very big beef with you.” Then she kicked him in the balls.

He dropped to his knees with a whimper, bringing his face level with Buffy’s. She winked coquettishly at him before delivering a vicious roundhouse kick to his face

Mr Teeth dropped sideways, unconscious and minus a few of his pointy teeth.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn was  _so_  ready to kick some vampire butt.

And with everyone already in the know, she didn’t even need to sneak out. All she had to do was grab up a few stakes from the trunk of weapons in the living room, shout “I’m off for some slayage!” and that was that.

Of course, she’d waited until Willow and Tara were the only ones in the house.

And in their room, with the door shut.

And by “shout”, really she meant, “say quietly under her breath”.

_Same diff. Not sneaking._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“John,” Buffy said, pulling him up into a sitting position. “Are you alright?”

The movement was way too fast. He tried to smile reassuringly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Reckon I’ll live,” he said muzzily.

Buffy could see he was struggling to focus. She never would have thought it possible to weave while sitting down. But apparently this was something her guy could do. “Something tells me you attract trouble,” she said grimly.

He listed slightly to one side when she let go of his shoulder. Every movement was sending shards of pain splintering through his skull. He laid his head gently on his hands and waited for the room to stop spinning.

It occurred to him that he really needed to stop hitting his head.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn was bored. The only movement she’d seen so far was from rats.

Also she was cold.

She looked down at her tank and combat shorts.

_Guess Lara Croft chic only works in the jungle._

She heard rustling behind her.

It wasn’t a rat.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy stood up and went over to examine the unconscious Mr Teeth. “No wallet or anything,” she said. “But he’s got a pretty ring for such a scary guy. I woulda thought something with skulls’d be more his speed.”

John watched Buffy move around with a mixture of reverence and desire. “You move like poetry, you know.”

As their eyes met, some of the tension seeped out of Buffy’s shoulders. If he was still thinking lusty thoughts, he couldn’t be that badly hurt. Partly in relief and partly in genuine amusement, she giggled. “Guess I’m some kinda superhero or something.”

John’s slightly dopey smile slipped and his eyes widened in fear. “Not a superhero – a  _Slayer_. Which means Dawn—”

“Which means Dawn isn’t.” Buffy’s face went ashen.  “Can you walk?”

John didn’t bother answering. He was too busy running.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“This is pointless,” Anya said, throwing down the book she was reading. “We can’t remember anything. There’s a great gaping hole in the shelf where the big bad books of memory spells ought to be. And your notes  _clearly_  show you found nothing useful from however long you’ve spent in here already.”

Rupert pursed his lips. “What would  _you_  suggest, then, oh fount of all knowledge?”

Anya glared at him.

The faintest hint of a smile twitched over Rupert’s lips.  _She really is quite fetching when she’s brassed off._

“You said that one girl still remembers how to do magic, right?”

“Tara, yes.”

“So let Tara and her sidekick find us the spell to fix it. Hell, one of them probably did it in the first place!”

“Surely not,” Rupert chided.

“Most victims know their attackers,” Anya said blandly. “Why should a magical attack be any different?”

Rupert sighed. He didn’t want to believe that one of those girls could be capable of something so dark. “We can hardly sit here and do nothing.”

Anya sighed. “Right now, any one of us would gaily invite our worst enemy in for coffee and cake. Probably hand them the appropriate ceremonial dagger to cut out our entrails while we’re at it.” Her eyes took on a slightly dreamy look.

Rupert blanched slightly.  _Perhaps best not ever make her_  too _angry._

Anya started searching through the papers scattered over the table. “I’m sure I saw some notes here somewhere on how to ward from physical attacks.” She paused, looking up at Rupert. “Maybe we should do a little home security?”

Giles raised his eyebrows. “That’s actually quite a good idea.”

Anya rolled her eyes.

“The house I woke up in,” Rupert continued, “it looked like it’s seen a lot of fighting recently.”

“You should trust your business partner. I’m clearly the smart one. You probably just sweep up or something.”

Giles raised his eyebrows, looking between Anya and the table covered in his notes. “Clearly.”

Anya flushed slightly. “Shopkeepers sweep! It’s a thing.”

Giles cleared his throat and bent his head to begin going through the notes again.

“We’re just so vulnerable right now,” Anya whined. “I don’t want to die.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

John knew before they reached the front walk that Dawn had already left the house.

It was weird. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said he could  _smell_  her. But that was just crazy.

He stopped and turned, grabbing Buffy’s hand to keep her with him, and hared off after something he couldn’t define but that definitely couldn’t be Dawn’s scent trail. Could it?

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The first few seconds were okay.

Dawn didn’t scream when she saw the vampire, and there was a certain pride in that. Plus, she had a stake ready, so when he slammed her up against a crypt wall, it went straight into him.

After that? Not so much with the okay-ness.

The stake had missed the heart by a good inch.

Dawn started out more embarrassed than afraid – after all, the Chosen One wasn’t supposed to  _miss._  But then she realised that no matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t get him off her.

She started screaming then. But it only made the vampire laugh.

She could smell the tangy copper of blood on his breath.

And then he bit her and there was only pain and the certainty that she was going to die.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

John heard screams – familiar, high-pitched screams that made his eardrums ache. He was already pushing himself to his limits, only distantly aware of his injuries. But now he pushed himself harder, until everything around him was no more than a blur.

Buffy had been struggling to keep up with him from the beginning. By the time they neared the cemetery gates, she knew she had to rest, catch her breath. This winded, she wouldn’t be good for anything.

She slowed, tugging him back. Without turning or slowing, he let go of her hand. She stopped, doubled over and gasping. When she finally looked up, she saw the cemetery’s name in wrought iron letters over the gate.

 _Mount Pleasant Cemetery?_ Seriously _?_

John was aware that Buffy had stopped somewhere behind him, but he was so focussed on getting to Dawn he barely noticed.

He knew now that she was hurt –  _bleeding_  – in the same inexplicable way he’d known how to track her. Panic and fear over Dawn’s safety vanished, drowned in a tidal wave of rage and a desperate thirst to slaughter whoever had dared harm her.

The bones in his face shifted, rearranging themselves.

Dawn was so thin, so … breakable. How could he ever have left her alone? She wasn’t safe and it was all his fault.

And then –  _impossibly_  – he could hear her heartbeat. It was dangerously slow and heavy.

The other vampire never even saw him coming. John ripped his head right off his shoulders while he was still lapping at Dawn’s neck.

John’s first thought was that it absolutely should not have been possible for him to rip someone’s head off.

_Guess I’m some sort of superhero an’ all._

John’s second thought was that he’d killed the bastard too quickly – not enough blood or fear or pain.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Mr Teeth woke up on the laundromat floor in a world of hurt and burning with embarrassment.

He staggered out into the night, looking for a phone booth.

No one had expected the Slayer to be protecting Spike. Plus, he was almost sure she’d called him her  _boyfriend_.

This was going to complicate matters considerably.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Despite her lethargy, Dawn opened her eyes when she felt the gentle shower of dust coating her skin. Another vampire, heaving with rage, filled her field of vision. Her struggling heart started beating even harder, more desperately. Then her knees buckled beneath her, too weak to carry her weight.

“Hey,” John said gently, dropping to his knees and reaching out to stroke her shoulder. “You’re safe now, pet.”

Dawn curled in on herself, as far away from him as she could get. “P-please don’t kill me,” she begged breathlessly. “I don’t want to die.”

John couldn’t see her face, but somehow he knew it was wet with tears.

“It’s John, luv. I’m here. You’re safe,” he said softly. He tore a strip of fabric off of his t-shirt, pressed it into her hand and then held her hand against the wound. “Press down and hold.”

Dawn whimpered, fear continuing to roll off of her in sick-smelling waves. “Y-you’re not John,” she whimpered weakly, finally looking up at him. “You can’t be. You’re a  _vampire_.”

John stared at Dawn in horror, her words forcing him to acknowledge that it was  _him_  she was so afraid of. She was cringing away, making the inches between them feel like miles. He opened his mouth to argue with her, but as he moved his lips, he felt teeth where there really shouldn’t have been teeth.He ran his hands over his ridged face and felt for his non-existent pulse. He finally accepted that he could  _smell_  the salt from her tears. Like he could smell her blood. And her fear.

He felt like he was about to throw up.

In abject misery, he said, “Dawn, you’ve got to believe me … I didn’t – I would  _never_ —”

She just kept staring at him like he was a monster.

 _You_ are _a monster, you stupid git._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The hospital kicked Buffy and John out as soon as Dawn was settled in for “overnight observation”. She’d needed stitches and a blood transfusion, but the doctors had assured them she should be fine in a couple of days. They even gave Buffy a neck trauma note for the school.

John had been weirdly silent and standoffish the whole time.

When they got outside, she stopped. “So you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” she asked.

He hunched further into himself. “Turns out I’m a vampire,” he said quietly, staring at his feet and refusing to meet her eyes.

Buffy tried  _so hard_  to hold it in, but the laughter just kept bubbling out of her until she could barely breathe and tears were streaming from her eyes.

John stared at her, slack-jawed with shock.

“Well,  _duh_!” she gasped out finally.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Willow asked dubiously.

“Of course,” Anya said coldly. “I own a magic shop. Clearly, I’m an expert.”

“Clearly,” Rupert said drily.

Anya blushed.

“Oookay,” Willow said, looking back and forth between them. “If you say so.”

Anya opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when they heard the front door opening.

“Hello?” Buffy called out. “Oh!” she said, seeing Anya in the living room, surrounded by the other occupants of the house. She and John dropped the bags of clean laundry they were carrying. “Who are you?”

“This is my business partner, Anya,” Rupert said. “Anya, this is Buffy and John. They live here.” He turned back to Buffy. “We thought it might be prudent to cast a protection spell on the house, to dispel attack.”

“Huh,” Buffy said. “We can do that? Cool.”

“You sure it’s safe?” John asked warily.

“I  _am_  a natural at the supernatural,” Anya said.

Rupert coughed. Anya glared at him.

“Now,” Anya said very slowly, as if speaking to a child. “You put these circles of thorns over each doorway.” She handed a small brown paper bag to Willow. “Perhaps over the windows as well. You have many broken windows here, you know.”

“Yeah, we kinda noticed that,” Willow grumbled, taking the bag.

“Thank you, Anya,” Tara said. Then she peered around the couple in the doorway. “Wasn’t Dawn with you?” she asked, suddenly worried.

Buffy and John looked at each other, and then back to Tara.

“You didn’ know where she was?” John said a little bit too calmly, a muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch.

Buffy put a warning hand on his arm. “She’s at the hospital.”

“Is she okay?” Willow asked.

“She will be,” John said coldly.

“A Slayer shouldn’t need a hospital except for the gravest of injuries,” Giles said quietly. “I doubt very much that Dawn is  _okay_.”

Buffy took a deep breath. “Dawn’s not the Slayer,” she said. “I am.”

There was dead silence in the room.

“Who’s Dawn?” Anya asked, finally.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Rupert drove Anya home in Tara’s car after they’d completed the protection spell. He still wasn’t sure what their relationship was, but … he thought he understood now why she was his emergency contact.

When he returned, the porch light was out – but so were all the other lights at the front of the house, so he wasn’t worried. He never saw Mr Teeth lurking in the shadows.

He was unconscious before he could get the key in the lock.

Mr Teeth tried three times to kick the door in, but it felt like he was bouncing off some kind of force field. For a minute, he was worried he’d have to go through the hassle of kidnapping the old guy and exchanging him for the vampire. Then he got a better idea.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya was exhausted by the time she let herself into the apartment.

It was almost completely dark inside – the only light the flicker of the television reflecting off of Xander’s eyes and the collection of empty bottles surrounding him.

“Where’ve you been?” Xander asked, slurring his words more than a little bit.

“Out,” Anya said, wrinkling her nose at the beer-stink suffusing the apartment. “Have you seriously done nothing but drink and watch TV since I left?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Mr Teeth dragged Rupert out into the middle of the front lawn – he wasn't part of the contract, and still might come in useful as leverage.

Then he walked around the perimeter of the house with the can of kerosene, splashing it against the wooden cladding of the house.

The wicker chair on the porch seemed as good a place as any to start the fire.

He figured no protection spell could last forever against a fire.

And neither could a vampire.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The spell breaks_

“S’where were you for six hours?” Xander asked.

“Gosh, you care now?” Anya turned her back on him to flick on the overhead light.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he said softly, squinting and blinking as his eyes adjusted. “Course I care.”

“I was with my business partner.” Anya turned. There were crumbs on his shirt. And something that looked like ketchup or pizza sauce. She stared at him with distaste. “My very attractive business partner.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

To Mr Teeth’s chagrin, whatever it was that had stopped him from kicking in the door also seemed to be feeding the fire. The flames kept getting bigger and hotter, but the wooden cladding remained untouched. Even the paint still looked white and fresh.

By the time he heard the whine of approaching sirens, the flames had created a wall of fire all the way around the house that reached almost as high as the peak of the roof.

The spell was holding out far longer than he’d expected.

Mr Teeth picked Rupert up and crouched out of sight between a couple of parked cars across the street. He couldn’t stay on the lawn – it was too exposed. Also, too hot.

Just after the fire trucks arrived, but before any water had been sprayed, there was a flicker, as if the flames disappeared and reappeared in the blink of an eye, and then the spell broke with a boom, exploding the trees around 1630 Revello Drive into shards of flaming wood careening into 1628 and 1632, setting them alight.

The protection spell had done its job well. The only signs of damage at 1630 were the scorched earth where the lawn used to be and the ashy smudges on the porch from the wicker furniture that had been used to start the fire.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya felt it when the spell broke. She was dizzy and disoriented and nauseous, like the ground was rolling under her feet. She was also afraid. When she realised Xander was still talking, having missed her discomfort entirely, it was easy to go on the attack. “Oh, sure! Blame  _your_  drunkenness on me, why don’t you! I bet you think it’s my fault the laundry’s not done and the apartment’s all messy.”

“You live here, too,” he bleated, feeling like he’d somehow lost control of himself and the conversation. “Why shouldn’t it be both our faults?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Mr Teeth grinned, enjoying the chaos of frightened neighbours and the firemen scrambling to switch targets. He moved out of the shadows to intercept one of the larger firemen. After kicking the corpse under the nearest parked car, he shrugged on his coat and hat. Then he started walking back to 1630 with a measured, purposeful stride. There were so many firemen milling about, no one noticed him.

Tara had just reached the bottom of the stairs when Mr Teeth sent the door crashing into her. At her cry of shock and pain, Willow came running down after her.

Time seemed to slow down for Willow. The giant filling the hallway seemed to just stare at her for a while, grinning like a shark. Then he started moving towards the staircase where Tara lay among the debris from the broken door.

All Willow could think of was that he was trying to hurt Tara and she had to stop him. Only Tara saw Willow’s eyes flash black and opaque as she shouted an incantation from the stairs: “ _Vis Zenobiae! Solvere!_ ”

Her spell sent one of the pokers from the fireplace flying swiftly through the air towards the intruder’s heart.

He caught it.

Mr Teeth laughed as he grasped the pointy end of the poker and swung it at Willow’s head. She ducked sideways to avoid it, but tripped over Tara and the broken pieces of door and fell backwards down the last few steps. She only just managed to protect her head and neck, landing hard on her hip.

No one noticed a small, round, object fall out of the pocket of her robe and skitter across the floor.

The giant watched Willow try and fail to get up as he adjusted his grip, waiting until she had stopped squirming and her eyes held only resignation before bringing his arm back to strike again.

Willow squeezed her eyes shut against the swish of air from the advancing poker.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“It’s not  _my_  fault because  _you’re_  the useless one!” Anya cried. She pulled herself up, projecting strength to keep from breaking down. “You know, maybe the reason we have all those sex toys is because you’re incapable of giving me orgasms on your own.” Her eyes narrowed. “I bet your penis is tiny and flaccid.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow tentatively opened one eye – shocked she was still alive. Her field of vision was filled with Buffy’s hand, gripping the handle of the poker.

“No more playing with my toys,” Buffy said grimly.

Mr Teeth only grinned, leaning into Buffy and opening his cavernous mouth to take a bite out of her. But before he could do more than drool, John’s left fist connected with his jaw, dislocating it.

Both of them screamed in pain.

“Fuck!” John shouted, shocked and starting to panic. His head really, really should not be hurting from punching someone.

Mr Teeth swung around wildly, jerking the poker out of Buffy’s hand and just managing to land a glancing blow to her weakened shoulder, pushing it out of its socket so her left arm fell numb and useless at her side.

John decided not to risk another punch, and grabbed onto Mr Teeth’s poker-less arm, bending his wrist over and holding his elbow against his chest in a restraining hold.

As Mr Teeth struggled to recover control of his arm from John, Buffy kicked out his knee, making it bend inwards with a sickening crunch.

Then she yanked the poker out of Mr Teeth’s other hand. He let it go – making her overbalance away from him – and made his now-free hand into a fist and struck out towards John’s head.

Without even thinking, Buffy swung the poker backhanded across Mr Teeth’s face.

She had never realised before quite how pointy the hook of a poker was. But there was a whole lot of blood coming out of Mr Teeth’s neck now – just where she had accidentally ripped out his throat.

“Oops?” Buffy said quietly. She knew she had killed him, even if he wasn’t dead yet.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander closed his eyes, despair and pain overtaking him in waves. “So did you fuck him?”

“No,” Anya said haughtily. “Although maybe I should have. You’re obviously not good for anything tonight.”

“Bitch!” he snarled. He hurled the beer bottle against the wall, smashing it to pieces.

Anya watched the beer and glass slide down the wall. Then she looked back at Xander, her lip curling in contempt. “You’re pathetic.”

Something broke free in Xander, then – something ugly and violent. If he could have remembered, he would have recognised it. After all, he’d spent five years trying to convince himself it didn’t exist.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Mr Teeth stumbled backwards, shock and blood loss robbing him of his former grace. His heel crushed a small, blackened crystal….

The memory spell broke.

Mr Teeth hit the ground like a felled tree. He took up almost the whole of the hallway.

Buffy didn’t think she’d survive the sudden onslaught of memories – of  _loss_. Her entire body felt bowed and broken from the weight. Her knees threatened to buckle.

But the need to deal with the human body at her feet – the man she’d  _murdered_  – stopped her from escaping into her mind. She threw the poker aside, no longer able to bear how it felt in her hand.

When Buffy finally found the strength to look up, she found Willow watching her, the guilt so heavy on her face there could be no doubt who was responsible for the spell.

“Get out,” Buffy whispered, almost beneath her breath.

Buffy might as well have screamed the words, they hit Willow with such force. Her body felt brittle and fragile, like it was about to shatter, and it took several tries before she could get herself up on her feet.

Not even Tara put out a hand to help her.

Willow made the mistake of looking back when she reached the doorway. The faces of the two people she loved most in the world were white and pinched and hard, while Spike’s bile-coloured eyes promised her a slow, painful death.

Heartsick and frightened, Willow fled through the shell of the front door and out into the night.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander was shocked into stone cold sobriety. His hands were shaking and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He flung himself back to the opposite end of the sofa, as far away as he could get from where Anya sat, shivering, knees to her chest, as she tried to wrap a blanket around herself.

She kept dropping the edges of the blanket.

After several moments of staring anywhere but at each other, Xander broke the silence. “Why do you want to marry me, Anya?” His voice was hoarse, haunted.

“I love you.” She sniffed back a sob as a watery smile floated over her lips. “And the orgasms have always been excellent.”

He slumped further into the sofa and ran his hands over his face. “Have we ever had anything besides a mutual admiration for my penis?”

“But it’s such a lovely penis,” Anya said, still trying to lighten the mood. She reached out to touch him, but he flinched away.

Staring down at his still-shaking hands, he said, “We only have a relationship because you didn’t want the social stigma of going to prom dateless, and you thought I was less annoying than the other twelfth-graders.”

She kept trying to catch his eye. She kept failing. “So? That was nearly three years ago. We’re at the living-together stage now. It’s different!”

“You keep a list in your jewellery box of the stages of relationships so you don’t forget the order,” Xander said softly.

Anya couldn’t decide whether to yell at him for prying or defend herself against the accusation that she couldn’t remember the stages without the list.

“I know marriage is next on your list,” Xander said. “Are you sure this isn’t just another status thing for you?”

“ _You_  asked  _me_!” Anya was starting to cry again.

“I know,” Xander sighed.

“Do you wish you hadn’t?” Her voice was shrill with terror.

It was a long time before Xander spoke.

“I love you, Anya,” he said finally. “I don’t want to know what my life would be like without you. But what just happened….”

“That’s not an answer!” Anya’s face was blotchy and puffy and red.

Xander still thought she looked beautiful.

“Did you … did you think you’d never have to go through with it?” she wavered, almost as if she didn’t want to hear his answer.

“No!” Xander finally met her eyes. “I asked because I finally  _got_  your fear of running out of time. I thought … I didn’t wanna wait to be happy.”

“So why the hell are we still waiting?” Anger was warring with desperation now.

“Because I wanted our engagement to be about  _being happy_. And I haven’t wanted to be happy since Buffy died.”

“Why not?” Xander had never been willing to tell her  _why_  before. He just kept saying it would be “inappropriate” and got all sulky and sullen when she asked him to explain.

Xander ran his hands over his face. “Look, I know you’ve never liked them much. But Buffy and Willow and Giles are my  _family_ , in a way my blood family never have been. They know me, know all my failings, and they still love me. Losing Buffy was like … it was like losing a part of me. The  _best_  part of me.”

Anya slumped back against the sofa, suddenly exhausted. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? I wouldn’t have … I would’ve—”

“You never asked,” Xander said, shrugging. “And you hated that we were hiding our engagement. It felt … I didn’t want to make Buffy’s death an excuse. She didn’t – she  _doesn’t_  – deserve that.”

“I love you, Xander.” Anya felt like her heart was breaking.

“Why?” He laughed, a choking sound full of despair. “I don’t understand  _why_.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles jerked back to consciousness, all of his memories intact.

His first thought was that he had to get back to Buffy.

His second was that the firemen would likely not let him.

In the end, he and several firemen reached the remains of the front door together.

His stomach fell and his heart was in his throat.

_So much blood._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Without my memory, I … I turned into my  _father_. I swore I’d never be like that again, be like him. I … I can’t….” Now Xander stopped, frantically rubbing at his eyes, refusing to allow himself to cry.

Anya watched him for a while, wanting to offer comfort, but not sure how to do it without initiating sex. “You’re really brave,” she said finally.

Xander sat up slightly straighter.

“You have no magic, no special strength. You’re not particularly smart.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Anya glared at him. “I wasn’t finished!”

Xander slumped back, resigned.

“You’re terrified of  _everything_.”

Xander sighed.

Anya scooted closer and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. “But despite your many shortcomings, you keep getting involved in all this scary saving-the-world stuff. Willingly! And you make me want to, too.”

Xander jerked away from her. “You say that, but you get upset whenever I spend time with Buffy or Willow. And you nag and complain every time I help patrol instead of spending time with you.”

“Only because I worry! I don’t want you to get hurt!”

“So you want me to stop doing the only thing you can think of that you actually like about me?”

“No,” Anya said petulantly.

“Anya, that saving-the-world stuff is the best part of me. It’s the only part I’m proud of.”

“I think I get that,” she said slowly. She met his eyes again. “It … it feels really  _good_  to have someone ask for your help. To be needed.”

Xander smiled for the first time since he’d regained his memory. “Yeah, it really does.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn was mortified that she’d let herself get bit. She’d been  _so sure_ , she hadn’t even checked to see if she had Slayer strength before going off on her own. She could feel heat in her cheeks every time she thought about it.

But mostly she was kicking herself for being so freaked by “John” being a vampire. If she hadn’t pushed him away so hard, maybe he would have stayed, and now Spike would be here, with her, instead of with  _Buffy_.

Dawn wasn’t sure which scared her more: that Buffy would freak out about all the groin-y-ness with Spike and kick him out of the house again, or that she’d decide to start loving him back.

_Stupid Buffy._

Either way, Dawn was pretty sure she would lose Spike.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“So why do you love  _me_ , Xander?”

“I – you – because—”

“See? Not so easy.” She leaned back, smug, folding her arms.

Xander rolled his eyes. “I love how  _honest_  you are. I can … I can relax with you in a way I can’t with anyone else, because I know you’ll always tell me what you want,  _and_  when you’re not getting it. I know I’m not the best boyfriend, but I … I trust you to tell me how to be better.”

“Oh.” Anya’s brow furrowed. “That’s how I feel about you.” She moved a little closer to him.

“You worry about being a bad boyfriend?”

“No! About being human. I can relax with you because I  _know_  you’ll tell me if I’m doing it wrong or badly. And you tell me  _specifically_ , so I can improve.”

“Is that a basis for spending the rest of our lives together? Trusting each other to say when we’re screwing up?”

“What else should we have?”

Xander started looking upset again.

“No!” Anya said, frustrated. “It’s a real question. What else should we have?”

Xander stared off into the middle distance for a few seconds. “Something that digs into you and won’t let go, no matter what.”

“ _I_  have that with you,” Anya said, torn between glaring and pouting.

Xander stared into her eyes. “When we forgot, I was terrified and you  _despised_  me.”

“I offered you sex! That helps you when you’re terrified.”

“No, sweetheart,” he said, moving towards her so their thighs were almost touching, and taking one of her cold hands in his warm ones. “It helps  _you_  when  _you’re_  terrified.”

“But I thought—”

“I’m a guy. It takes a heck of a lot of fear before I turn down sex.” He pursed his lips. “Funny how losing my memory was somehow scarier than facing a hell god.”

“Familiarity breeds contempt?” Anya suggested lightly. “You’re my best friend,” she whined, clutching onto his hands with both of hers.

“I shouldn’t be,” Xander said gently, squeezing back. “I  _still_  don’t understand how I don’t bore you as much as everyone else my age does.”

“Well, you  _do_. When you talk,” Anya said.

Xander swallowed a laugh. Or maybe a sob.

That was when Anya finally got it. She felt her stomach fill with stones. “I don’t want this to end,” she said. “I’m not ready for it to end.”

“Me either.” Xander let the tears fall this time. “But we can’t go back.”

“No,” Anya said vehemently. Very tentatively, she reached out to cup his face, brushing her thumb under his eyes.

Xander leaned into her hand.

Anya took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “By all rights, I should be wishing bloody vengeance on you right now.”

They just looked at each other in silence for a while.

“I know,” Xander said finally.

For the first time in their entire relationship, Anya had no lingering doubts about whether he really loved her. She finally knew, absolutely, that he did.

She also knew that it was over.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Surprise, surprise, everyone is pretty miserable_

When he heard the call-out for arson and homicide at Revello Drive, Detective Paul Stein flicked on his sirens and lights, pulled a handbrake turn, and headed straight there.

He had been waiting  _years_  for another crack at Buffy Summers.

This time it was a dead fireman with a broken neck – no robots or “neck trauma” or other weird circumstances, and no Chief Munroe or Mayor Wilkins to cover it up. He grinned to himself. The prosecutor’s office would  _have_  to believe him now. Even in Sunnydale, innocent girls weren’t involved in four murders in as many years.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles and two firemen were squashed into the archway where the front door used to be, staring. The walls were streaked with red, and the floor was slick with blood.

The patchwork front door had exploded into the hall and partway up the stairs, leaving debris scattered throughout. Tara was still trying to extricate herself from under a particularly large section that had thankfully shielded her from most of the spray.

Buffy and Spike were standing near the dining room side, staring down at the felled giant. She had caught the bulk of the arterial spray, and her once-white sweater and cream slacks were now mostly a damp and sticky brownish-red. Spike had escaped with macabre freckles on his face and arms, his black clothing hiding everything else.

“What the hell happened in here?” the younger fireman asked, shocked and looking more than a little green. He was very young. Giles thought it unlikely he’d ever seen a dead body before. The older fireman did not react at all.

Buffy was still on her feet – just. The knowledge that she’d killed a man to save a vampire was reverberating so loudly in her head, it was blocking everyone and everything else out. She felt  _so cold_  she could barely feel her fingers and even the most basic sort of thought process was beyond her. She thought there were voices – maybe Tara and Spike? – but they were far away and muffled.

“He tried to kill us, but I killed him first,” she said abruptly, trying to answer the fireman’s question – the last thing she’d heard clearly.

Everyone turned to her, shocked.

Spike’s head ached and he wanted to go tear Willow into itty-bitty pieces and it had taken his last reserves of energy to force his eyes to turn blue for the nice firemen. And now Buffy was interrupting his and Tara’s attempts to convince them  _he’d_  killed the guy.  _Crazy bitch!_

Buffy started visibly shaking. She wavered on her feet, and Spike put out an arm to steady her before he realised what he was doing. “Don’t touch me!” she said, slapping his hand away.

He jerked away from her and half-collapsed against the doorframe to the dining room, laughing bitterly to himself.  _Two steps forward, whole bloody mile back._  Although even he was reeling slightly. His body remembered hers, and it was hard to separate out John's sense-memories.

“Buffy….” Giles started towards her but stopped. She’d regained control of herself, and he could see she was shutting down, locking off her emotions. Best not to approach her when she was like this – not in front of strangers, anyway.

The second fireman had been watching all of this attentively. Finally, he spoke: “Fire definitely started at this house. And it’s definitely arson.” He looked up towards the empty doorframe. “Obvious signs of a break-in.” Bending over the corpse, he added, “He reeks of kerosene.” Straightening, he said, “Seems someone don’t like you-all for some reason.” He paused, giving Spike a long considering look. “Any of you three leave the house in the last half hour or so?”

“No,” Tara said, looking confused. “W-why?”

The fireman nodded, satisfied they knew nothing about his dead colleague. “You’ll find out,” he said darkly. He turned to Giles. “And where were you, sir?”

Giles considered his options, and decided there was no harm in telling the truth. It was a novel experience.

The fireman nodded through his story, then seemed to come to some decision. “No fire here – not my business. Police’ll be along, I imagine. You-all live at this address?”

Buffy flinched.

Spike laughed.

Both firemen stared at him.

“Don’t mind me,” Spike said, smiling grimly. “Been a bit of a day.”

“Yes, w-we all live here,” Tara said quietly.

The older fireman nodded, and then he and his partner left.

It took a lot for Detective Stein to keep his impassive cop face in place when he glimpsed a blood-drenched blonde through the open doorway of number 1630, past the two firemen leaving the house. He figured his chances had doubled, maybe even tripled, of getting Buffy Summers in a jail cell by the end of the night.

“Why the fuck didn’t you let me tell ‘em I did it?” Spike whispered fiercely.

Buffy snorted. “Have you looked at yourself? I’m covered in blood. You barely have a drop on you.”

“Right,” he snarled. “How stupid of me. Why would you ever let me help you?” Spike shut his eyes and tried to take deep, calming breaths. It only made him more aware of the scent of still-warm blood suffusing the room.

“Buffy Summers!” Detective Stein called out from the doorway. His resolve wavered slightly once he got a proper look at her. He couldn’t believe how thin and fragile she looked – a mere shadow of the girl he remembered. Then he saw the throat-less giant on the floor. “ _Two_  dead bodies this time?”

Giles snapped to attention. “Who else is dead?”

Detective Stein’s heart sank as he looked around the room. No one would ever believe a tiny girl like her was the aggressor against a thug like that – not even him, if he was totally honest with himself. And the thug seemed a far more likely candidate for killing the fireman. She was surrounded by witnesses, too.  _Damn!_  He sighed, and pulled out his notebook.

“A firefighter is dead. Broken neck. I’d like to hear everyone’s version of what’s happened tonight.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow cast a blurring spell around her as she ran out of Buffy’s house and down the street. She was crying and she didn’t want anyone to see her.

She didn’t really notice the fire trucks or the multitude of people milling around. She was too wrapped up in her own misery.

_Dawn nearly died, because of me._

_Buffy did the nasty with_ Spike _! Because of me._

 _Tara’s_ hurt _._

_Because of me._

She thought about going to a hotel, but realised that what with the back rent and everything, she was pretty much broke.

She’d have to go back to her parents’ place.

 _I really am a failure_.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Detective Stein reluctantly left 1630 Revello Drive just over an hour later. There would be no charges filed tonight.

He supposed he ought to be grateful Barney Jones was dead. He was the prime suspect in at least ten murders, but no one had ever been able to get enough evidence to convict. He just wished he knew why a professional hitman had come to Sunnydale. It certainly wasn’t to kill a fireman.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

When the last of the police and their techs had gone, Buffy ran for the shower. She hadn’t said a word beyond monosyllabic answers to Detective Stein’s questions and the necessary communication with the crime scene techs when they took her clothes for evidence, and the police doctor when she’d examined her for injuries. Buffy had never been so grateful for a dislocated shoulder in her life. This wouldn’t be like that time with Ted, when no one would believe she’d been hurt.

Throughout the interviews, all she could think was that she’d committed murder for a vampire. It didn’t matter that everyone was calling it self-defence. Only she and Spike knew the truth: whatever-his-name-was had given her an out back in the launderette. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her – hadn’t even fought back that first time. So she’d just murdered a man in cold blood for trying to hurt a vampire she—

_I will not finish that sentence._

Spike could call it an accident all he wanted. Buffy knew what she’d been thinking when she’d lashed out with the poker. She’d wanted Mr Teeth dead.

She’d betrayed her calling – let her feelings get in the way of her duty. Again.

She didn’t deserve to be the Slayer. She should just start calling herself Buffy the Vampire Layer. It was far more appropriate.

In the shower, she scrubbed and scrubbed but no matter what she did, she could still feel the dead man’s blood burning into her skin – could still feel Spike’s lips and hands. She kept on scrubbing until long after the hot water had run out and her blood was turning the water pink as it went down the drain.

 _Maybe I came back wrong. If I didn’t, then it’s just me – my choices. I_ must _have come back wrong._

_How could I forget that I can’t be happy? So stupid! A happy Buffy equals people dying._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara was getting angrier and angrier the more she scrubbed.

She wasn’t ready to tackle the enormous knot of emotions associated with Willow right now, so she was mentally berating Spike for  _always_  forgetting that housework was more than just “the washing up”; Giles for somehow managing to be doing “important research” whenever there was cleaning to be done; and Buffy for being so traumatised it was impossible to ever ask her to do  _anything_.

She knew it was petty, but she was exhausted and scared and it was the only thing that was giving her the energy to keep going right now. And  _someone_  needed to be cleaning, or they’d be breathing in fingerprint dust for the next week and need a new floor in the hallway.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching Spike swallowing cold blood straight out of the bag. He could hear the microwave going – he assumed it was heating up more.

It was bizarre, really. Even with the Slayer Handbook in front of them, not one of them had recognised Spike as a vampire! Giles wanted desperately to believe it was because they had been befuddled by Willow’s spell. But even he had to admit that Spike had failed utterly to exhibit any signs of vampirism – even his aura was “normal”, according to Tara.

The self-control was mind-boggling – even more so because it was  _Spike_ , who Giles had always assumed had none.

_Homemade black pudding, indeed!_

He’d spent hours alone in a bedroom with Buffy – exercising, Giles insisted to himself – showing no desire to taste Slayer blood. Then he’d stood even longer in the hallway watching at least sixteen warm pints of fresh human blood cool and congeal right in front of him, and the first sign that it had affected him in any way was that he was now drinking cold blood – something he had refused to do even when he was near-starving in Giles’ apartment.

_Utterly, utterly bizarre._

Spike finished draining the bag and looked up. He was in game face and there was blood smeared around his mouth. He licked it off, which Giles thought made him look oddly cat-like.

“I stand by what I said before,” Giles said quietly. “About not … interfering.”

Spike’s eyes widened. He wasn’t sure how to respond.

They stared at each other in silence until the ping of the microwave broke the moment.

When Giles looked back from the microwave, Spike was wearing his human face again.

Spike picked up his mug and crumbled Weetabix into it, followed by a generous pinch of some herb from a jar on the counter.

Giles repressed a shudder. The sight of Weetabix in blood still made him nauseous. “Did you see the ring?” he asked, as Spike took his first sip.

Spike nodded. “We both did.” He put his mug down on the counter. “But the Order of Taraka’s not after her.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Giles scoffed.

“They  _can’t_  go after her,” Spike said firmly.

Giles raised one eyebrow, his disbelief evident.

“What, you thought they just  _gave up_  and went away last time?” Spike’s look turned incredulous. “Christ, you really did!” He hooted with laughter. “How the fuck have you lot survived a Hellmouth this long?”

“Enlighten me,” Giles said, his tone clipped and slightly offended.

Spike shrugged, still smirking. “Only called ‘em in to keep her off-balance.”

“Off- _balance_?” Giles barked. “The most feared assassins in the underworld?”

“Most feared my arse!” Spike scoffed. “Sods’re almost all human these days! An’ I only paid ‘em to keep after her ‘til I started the ritual.”

Giles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “How stupid of me not to realise the assassins you hired weren’t actually meant to kill her.”

Spike looked sheepish. “Was gonna kill her myself after, yeah?”

“But of course you were,” Giles said drily, re-opening his eyes to glare. He looked sharply over at Spike. “Wait – you said  _can’t_. Surely your underpayment didn’t give her lifelong protection?”

Spike squirmed. “I might’ve possibly paid ‘em never to accept a contract on her.”

Giles’ eyebrows shot to his hairline. “ _Why?_ ”

“One fine evening, Angelus asked me how to contact the Order. I took steps.”

Giles opened and closed his mouth several times before blurting out: “But you were actively trying to kill us!”

“Not by  _then_.” Spike snapped. “Had a truce with the Slayer, didn’t I!”

They stared at each other in shocked disbelief. Giles couldn’t believe they’d started working together that long ago; Spike had always assumed Giles knew.

Finally, Giles said, “At least that means they  _can_  be called off.”

He wished desperately he was doing anything else but trying to figure out how to keep Spike alive. The whole scenario made his head ache. “Do you have any idea who called them this time?”

“Might be a bloke called Jenoff,” Spike said slowly.

“This is the thing you refused to tell me about, isn’t it?”

Spike shrugged. “Didn’ think it was important.”

“It bloody well is now!” Giles snapped.

“Fine,” Spike said sulkily. “S’pose I’d best tell you about the business, then.” He looked across at Giles slyly, a grin playing across his lips. “You’re pro’ly due half of Anya’s take, anyway.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

By the time Tara heard Buffy leaving the bathroom, she’d done as much as she could with the hallway and was really looking forward to getting clean and going to sleep. Despite the fact that she’d only been awake for nine hours – and out of bed for less than seven – she felt like she’d lived ten lifetimes.

Buffy’s hair was wrapped in a towel and she was wearing flannel pyjamas and a full-length robe when they passed each other on the stairs. She smelled of soap and lotion.

Tara’s clothes were lightly flecked with blood and water and she smelled of bleach and sweat.

Buffy knew she should say something kind and meaningful – give Tara comfort in a situation that had to be both awkward and painful for her.

At least she should say ‘thank you’ for cleaning up.

But it was taking everything Buffy had to keep her emotions contained. She was chilled to the bone and needed a hot drink. After that, she was planning on going to bed and crying herself to sleep. Then maybe she’d get a couple hours of rest before the nightmares started.

Comfort was something that happened to other people.

Giles happened to be watching Spike when Buffy walked into the kitchen, and he saw every subtle shift in posture and carriage. It was like watching a flower opening up towards the sun.

When Giles looked back at Buffy, he was surprised to see her body language mirroring Spike’s.

They both completely ignored him, of course.

The first thing Buffy noticed was the flaring of Spike’s nostrils. Their eyes met and she  _knew_  he was scenting the patches of bloody skin she’d hidden under pyjamas and bandages. He could probably smell her tears, too. She could see the invitation in his arms – the offer of solace, of  _understanding_.

She couldn’t bear the weight of the softness in his eyes – the  _knowledge_. She’d worked so hard to be strong, to pull up her armour. Why couldn’t she ever hide anything from him?

“Stop  _seeing_  me!” she snarled. “You have no right.”

His hands clenched into fists and his arms went rigid at his sides. “Fine. Guess I’ll go patrol, then.” His eyes went flat and hard as he looked pointedly at her pyjamas and the towel on her head. “Someone ought to.”

Spike slammed the back door behind him hard enough that one of the boards covering the broken window slipped its nails and started swinging drunkenly back and forth.

Buffy’s eyes glittered, but Giles wasn’t sure whether it was from rage or unshed tears.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara nearly cried when she realised there was no more hot water.

She stood in the bathroom, naked, staring at her body in the mirror, while she passed a too-cold washcloth over herself.

She erased the smudges of slightly shiny black fingerprint dust and the streaks of dull brown blood off of her skin. It looked like she was magically healing cuts and bruises.

Her real bruises were not so easy to deal with. The wide stripes across her back from where she’d fallen against the stairs were making it increasingly painful to move any of her back muscles – which basically meant everything hurt.

Despite the pain, she felt like her body should be  _more_  marked up – like there should be physical evidence of what she’d lived through in the last few days. She got her wish when she found the love bite on her inner thigh.

Suddenly, and with almost brutal force, the question she’d been oh-so-carefully ignoring since she’d regained her memories thrust itself to the forefront of her mind:

_Did Willow rape me?_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles didn’t know what to say, so he started making tea.

Buffy was still staring at the back door when she spoke. “You don’t have to worry, Giles. I’ll never do it again. I’ve learned my lesson”

“I don’t understand,” Giles said, his brow furrowing. “Do what again?”

“I won’t let my feelings get in the way of my duty.” She laughed, brittle as glass.

He frowned. “Buffy….”

She finally turned to meet Giles’ eyes. They were so full of pain he could almost feel the ache. “I murdered a man tonight.”

“This is hardly the first time you’ve killed,” Giles said lightly, turning to fuss with the kettle. “And he was a professional assassin. Worse than a murderer.”

“I didn’t kill him. I  _murdered_  him.”

Giles frowned. “Buffy, you’ve killed human Taraka assassins twice before. Far be it from me to tell you how to feel, but … it never seemed to bother you.”

Buffy frowned. “They were human? Huh.” She shook herself. “It doesn’t matter. They were trying to kill me. It was self-defence.”

“So was this.”

Buffy laughed again.

It  _hurt_  to hear it.

“He was no threat to me. I killed him because he was a threat to Spike.”

The silence between them grew.

“Spike lives here,” Giles said finally. “And he’s Dawn’s primary caregiver. Isn’t a threat to Spike a threat to you?”

Buffy started to speak several times, before slumping in defeat. “I should have dusted him years ago,” Buffy said, finally.

“Perhaps,” Giles said.

He knew then that he would not be telling her about killing Ben anytime soon. He’d taught her too well to divide the world into demon and human and to equate that division with good and evil.

One day, she’d be ready to accept that it was just one of the many useful lies the Council had invented to help young Slayers overcome their natural reluctance to kill. The Slayer’s war was like no other – she was  _one girl_  against the whole of demonkind. There was no possibility of football at Christmas for her. It was  _safer_  if she believed the only good demon was a dead demon.

He hadn’t understood, then, that what kept her alive in battle might well make it impossible for her to be happy outside of it. If he had, he might have tried to find a different way.

Because she’d been  _happy_. He’d seen a light shining out of her today he hadn’t even realised had been missing the last few years. And now she was going to sacrifice it to the altar of her sacred calling, like she’d sacrificed everything else she’d ever loved. Giles didn’t think he could bear to watch.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Buffy and Willow are conspicuous in their absence_

The first thing Dawn noticed when she opened her eyes was the privacy curtain.

It hadn’t been there when she’d gone to sleep.

She wasn’t exactly sure what time it was, but despite the light beyond the curtain, everything was still and hushed in that way you only get in the early morning.

The second thing she noticed was Spike’s boots – with Spike’s feet in them – splayed out on the floor alongside the bed.

Dawn gingerly leaned over the side to see him sitting up against the wall, eyes shut, duster spread over him like a blanket. Just as she was about to prod him awake, his eyes opened and his breathing stopped.

She let out an embarrassingly girly yip.

“‘Lo, Bit,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly with sleep.

Dawn cocked her head to one side, taking in his blood-flecked skin and the smell of cigarettes and alcohol on his breath. “She kick you out?”

Spike scowled. “No.”

“So why’re you sleeping on my floor?” Her eyes narrowed. “You stormed off in a huff, didn’t you?”

He rolled his eyes. “Why can’t you be all self-absorbed and oblivious like the other chits your age?”

Dawn shrugged. “Just special, is all.”

He laid his coat over his lap and moved forward so his arms were resting on the edge of the bed. He was keeping his distance, and it was confusing the hell out of Dawn.

Then she remembered that the last time she’d seen him she’d been crying and begging him not to kill her. “I’ve never been scared of you, you know,” she said. “I was just kinda woozy and I didn’t recognize your other face.”

“You see too much,” Spike whispered, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

Dawn snorted. “Like you could ever hide how you feel.”

Spike frowned while his eyes danced. “You  _should_  be scared of me. ‘M a big nasty vampire.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “I’m so scared I can hardly contain myself,” she deadpanned. “And in heels I tower over you, Mr  _Big_  Bad.”

“By a whopping half an inch! At  _most_ ,” Spike said petulantly.

Dawn rolled her eyes and shifted over in the bed. “Come sit?”

He got up and draped his duster over the end of the bed, before starting a good-natured shoving war to get into position. It was such a familiar process that, despite the frenzy of movement, it soothed both of them. But it was more exertion than Dawn was ready for, and she was panting and seeing spots by the time they came to a stop.

“Shouldn’t’ve done that,” Spike said, worried. “Your little heart’s goin’ gangbusters.”

“It’s really gross when you do that, y’know,” Dawn wheezed, wrinkling her nose.

“So I should play human?”

“John was pretty good at it.”

Spike flicked her ear.

“Ow!” Dawn howled. She tried to tickle him, but she was weak and slow, and Spike had her arms pinned before she got anywhere near the right places.

“Ah-ah! You need to rest,” he said severely.

Dawn kept struggling for a while, glaring ferociously. But she really was exhausted, so after a token effort, she relaxed and let herself be held.

It was comforting to have the familiar Spike-smells of hair gel and smoke overlaying the hospital’s stench of antiseptic and bleach. Last year had taught her to share Buffy’s hatred of hospitals.

“Are you gonna burst into flames if they open the curtains?” Dawn asked muzzily as her eyes fluttered shut.

“Nah,” Spike said. She could hear the smile in his voice. “No windows.”

“They gonna make you leave if they find you here?”

“Pro’ly.”

Then Spike started petting her hair and she was asleep in seconds.

He fell asleep not long after, lulled by the steady thrum of Dawn’s heartbeat and the warmth of her body against his.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara’s eyes were scratchy and she felt light-headed and spacey from exhaustion. She hadn’t managed to sleep at all. Every time her head got quiet, she moved wrong and her back hurt enough to wake her up. Then by the time she got comfortable again, she was all keyed up and wakeful.

Even after boiling her skin lobster-red in the shower, she was cold, so she put on a dress that covered her almost completely, her fuzziest socks, and one of her warmer cardigans. Hoping coffee would at least make her warmer, if not more alert, Tara padded gingerly down the stairs.

The house was silent and still, except for the sound of Giles’ light snoring from the living room. But it was the perfect company: Tara knew she wasn’t alone, but didn’t actually have to interact with anyone.

She went to the front doorway, now criss-crossed with police tape in lieu of a door. There was a splintery stump where the tree used to be, and the lawn was nothing but scorched earth. It hadn’t hit her until then just how lucky they’d been. Without the spell, the house would never have survived the fire.

Tara shivered, promising herself to re-do it as soon as Giles woke up, and reached underneath the tape to pick up the  _Sunnydale Gazette_  from the mat.

When she reached the kitchen, Tara raised every blind. She stopped and closed her eyes for a moment to drink in the warmth of the early morning sunshine, luxuriating in the guilty pleasure.

While she waited for the coffee to percolate, she opened the paper to the classifieds and started looking through the apartments for rent.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Miraculously, the male nurse who brought in Dawn’s breakfast just winked and left them to it. Dawn wondered – not for the first time – if Spike had a thrall he wasn’t telling anyone about.

She picked at her high-iron, sugar-free breakfast until she’d eaten more than she wanted but enough to shut Spike up. Putting down her tray, Dawn turned to the chair the nurse had brought for Spike ‘for appearances’ and said brightly, “So what’s gonna happen with you and Buffy now?”

“Always with the easy questions, hey?” Spike grumbled, putting his feet up on the bed.

“You’re not leaving again, are you?” Dawn said, covering the vulnerability of the question by shoving Spike’s feet off the bed.

“Never leave you, Bit,” Spike said quickly. “Who’d keep me on the straight an’ narrow?”

“But what if she really  _does_  kick you out?” Dawn hated herself a little bit for the whine she couldn’t quite keep from her voice.

“I’ll come visit.”

“What if she disinvites you again?”

Spike sighed. “‘Spect you’d come see me.”

“I’m not allowed in cemeteries.”

Spike snorted. “Since when’ve you done what you were told?”

“Hey! I do what I’m told plenty.”

“Oh yeah?” Spike ostentatiously coughed his next words: “Little Miss Five-Finger-Discount.”

Dawn froze. “You didn’t tell Buffy, did you?” she squeaked.

“Course not! Only ones who know your dirty l’il secret are me, Anya an’ every soddin’ shop-manager in the Sunnydale Mall.”

“Not  _every_  shop!” Dawn stopped. “And quit trying to distract me!” She reached over to slap his shoulder. Dropping back onto her pillows and looking suddenly much younger, she added quietly, “I know you were sleeping with her … before.”

He gave Dawn a long look. “Sleepin’, pet. Only sleepin’.”

“You were totally boinking yesterday,” Dawn said coldly. “It was loud.”

Spike winced. “Not discussin’ my sex life with you,” he said sulkily.

Dawn sniggered. “What, afraid you’ll damage my poor, innocent, young mind?”

“Yes!”

“You’ve spent  _hours_  telling me stories about all the people you and Drusilla gruesomely murdered yet you refuse to talk to me about  _sex_?”

“Murder’s … educational!”

“And sex  _isn’t_? I’m all teenaged and hormonal! And let me tell you, sex ed is woefully inadequate.”

“We live on a Hellmouth! I’m far more worried about you being eaten up than eaten out.” Spike clamped a hand over his mouth. “Fuck me,” he mumbled.

Dawn giggled. “I’ve been reading my sister’s  _Cosmo_ s since I was twelve, Spike. Chill.”

“ _Cosmo_?” He shuddered. “I’m a  _vampire_  and their take on ‘how to please your man’ scares me shitless.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “You’re hardly the poster boy for safe, sane and consensual.”

“Am for long-lastin’.” He smirked.

“I can’t believe you read  _Cosmo_. Wait – stop changing the subject!” Dawn whined. “This is  _serious_.”

Spike dropped the smirk.

“Are you and Buffy together now?” Dawn asked.

After a pause, Spike said, firmly and quietly, “No.” He sounded subdued and tired.

“Dumb question,” Dawn muttered. “Like you’d even be here if you were.”

“What now?” Spike asked, genuinely puzzled.

Dawn made a guttural, frustrated noise. “Look, if you had to choose between me and Buffy, who would you pick?”

Spike stared at her, his eyes haunted. “Don’ joke about that.”

“Not live-or-die, moron! Like … I dunno, dinner with me or patrol with her.”

Spike shifted uncomfortably. “Can’t I do both?”

“Would you stop hanging out with me if she told you to?” Dawn pressed.

Spike opened his mouth to say ‘of course not’, but something held him back. “What is this?” he asked finally, slightly dazed.

“No matter what happens between you and Buffy,  _I lose_.”

“What? I always thought you  _wanted_  us together.”

“Not so much post-sex-bot.”

Spike shifted around uncomfortably in his chair. “We’ve talked about that.”

Dawn shrugged. “I might’ve got past it if she hadn’t died.”

“And now?”

“When you’re around her, it’s like everything and everyone else just disappears. You stop seeing me.”

“Dawn—”

“I get it. You love her. But if she ever decides she wants you, where do I fit in? Who’s left to notice me?  _She_  barely notices me  _now_.”

“Buffy loves you!”

“She sure doesn’t show it,” Dawn said sulkily.

Spike sighed. When he’d come to see Dawn at the hospital, he’d expected … comfort, maybe? Not  _this_. He didn’t know how to deal with this. Love was supposed to make everything alright. It was supposed to be  _enough_.

“Was it so bad?” he asked, finally. “When we were—” He wanted to say ‘when we were a family’, but he lost his nerve. “When we couldn’t remember?” he finished quietly.

“No,” Dawn said slowly. “But Buffy was actually happy and you were …  _secure_  instead of crazy-needy.” Dawn gave him a sardonic half-smile. “And we both know neither of those things are  _ever_  gonna happen in real life.”

“I am  _not_  crazy-needy.”

Dawn snorted and gave a fair imitation of Spike’s best ‘you’re an idiot’ look.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Hello!” Xander called out. “Am I allowed to break through the tape?”

There was no answer, but Tara suddenly appeared in the hallway. “Hey, Xander.”

“You look like something the cat wouldn’t deign to drag in.”

“Gee, thanks,” Tara said, forcing out a small smile.

“You knew that was meant to be funny, right?” Xander said, suddenly nervous at Tara’s muted reaction.

He put down the equipment he’d been carrying and began a graceless war with the police tape to get through the door. After several false starts, Xander was hopping into the hallway, trying to remember if he’d ever been alone with Tara before. “So, uh, where’s the Willster?” he asked, a little breathlessly.

Tara went from parchment- to bone-white. “I d-d-d-don’t know.”

“Is she okay?” Xander asked, getting increasingly uncomfortable by how weird Tara was acting.

“Physically? Yeah.”

“Ookay.” Xander let the awkwardness build for a while. “So you gonna tell me what in the wide world of sports  _happened_  here last night?”

“The, um, Order of Tarkara?”

“ _Taraka_? Of the bugs-in-the-basement variety?” Xander shuddered.

“Yeah. Them. Um, they’re after Spike.”

Xander whistled. “You stay home for one night….”

“Yeah,” Tara said, nodding sympathetically.

“So where is everybody?”

“Dawn’s in the hospital – d-did Anya tell you?”

Xander nodded. “Was gonna go visit later if she wasn’t home already.”

“Buffy’s still in her bedroom – asleep, I guess? Giles is in the shower.” Tara paused. “I don’t know where Spike is.”

“Maybe we got lucky and they dusted him!” Xander said, mostly joking. He waited for her to say more.

Tara just stared at her hands.

Finally, he said, “Where’s Willow, Tara? Seriously. You’re scaring me now.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Oh no!” Dawn said suddenly.

Spike sprang to attention. “What’s wrong?”

“It was the season premier of  _Dawson_  last night!” Dawn wailed.

He laughed.

Dawn threw a pillow at him.

“Oi!” Spike threw it back. “Machine was programmed to tape it ages ago.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Dawn said sulkily. Looking happier, she said, “You think Pacey and Joey’ll get back together this season?”

Spike snorted. “She doesn’t love  _him_. Why am I the only one who recognises this?”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “I hope they have new angst this season. The whole love triangle thing is getting kinda old.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

By the time Tara had reached the part where there was a dead body in the hallway and Willow was running off into the night, Giles had joined them.

“How can you be sure it was Willow who did the memory spell?” Xander said. “She … she’s not  _like_  that.”

“She as good as admitted it,” Giles said quietly.

“She’s still Willow,” Tara said, far more confidently than she felt. “She … she’s just lost her way.”

Giles looked at her with undisguised pity. “Perhaps.”

Tara stared down at her hands. She didn’t want to be defending Willow. But she wasn’t ready to give up on her either.

“You’re wrong,” Xander said. “Willow wouldn’t do something like that for no reason. She must have had a reason.” He looked back and forth between Giles and Tara. “Right?”

“What possible reason could she have for erasing our memories?” Giles looked pointedly at Tara. “She’s out of control.”

“Are you g-going to b-b-b-bind her p-powers?”

Giles sighed. “I’m expecting a call tonight.”

“Wait, what with the what now?” Xander sputtered. “This is  _Willow_  we’re talking about.  _Bind_  her  _powers_? That’s something we do to the things that go bumpy in the night. We don’t hurt  _people_.”

“Binding her powers won’t be painful, Xander,” Giles said. “Think of it as a … a mystical restraint.”

“Are we talking about the same Willow here? ‘Cause the Willow I know would be in a world of pain if she couldn’t do magic anymore.”

“That’s k-kinda the p-problem,” Tara said quietly.

Xander really didn’t get it. What they’d done to Dawn the night they brought Buffy back still made him uncomfortable. But that was on all of them, even if it was Willow doing the spell. And it’s not like she hadn’t apologised! Xander knew how awful Willow still felt about it. What more was she supposed to do? “Willow hasn’t done anything  _that_  bad. I mean,” he turned guilty eyes to Giles, “we’ve all done worse than a memory spell before. Right?”

Giles sighed, realising quite how much Xander had missed the last few days.

“Have you even  _tried_  talking to her?” Xander asked.

“Tara did,” Giles said wearily. “But Willow erased her memory of the conversation.”

“Nuh-uh,” Xander said. “No  _way_. Willow would never do that. Tara must’ve made a mistake.”

Tara shrunk further into her cardigan. She’d been afraid of this – that no one would believe her. They were Willow’s friends, after all. Why  _should_  they believe her?

“Tara is not  _mistaken_ ,” Giles said sharply. Tara sat up a little straighter. “Willow has become a danger and she needs to be stopped. Before someone dies.”

“Before someone  _dies_?” Xander laughed, high-pitched and nervous. “What’s wrong with you? Willow couldn’t take the guilt of breaking a crayon, for crying out loud! We’re her friends. Her  _family_. She would never hurt us.”

Tara took a deep breath. Hearing Xander say the words she’d repeated to herself so many times, she finally realised that it didn’t matter what  _Willow_  would or would not do.

I  _am hurt. That’s what matters._

“She already has,” Tara said quietly and with full conviction.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The Buffy-bot lay naked and in pieces across a gleaming metal table: head, torso, two arms, two legs.

Her hair and the synthetic scalp it was attached to had been ripped off – too badly damaged by fire to be salvageable – leaving a wide strip of metal from her forehead to the tip of her spine. Her nose and lips had been bitten off, showing a combination of too-white teeth, too-tanned flesh and more dull grey metal. Her eye sockets were empty.

Something had tried to take the flesh off of her with a knife – perhaps a claw. Wide, even strips of scratched and gauged metal peeked through her perfectly tanned synthetic skin.

The bubblegum-pink nail polish that had once graced her fingers and toes was almost entirely chipped off, while the nails beneath it were broken into jagged edges. The only exception was her right arm, which had been burnt down to its dull grey skeleton from elbow to fingertips.

Warren Mears stroked his fingers gently over her chest, where her high, tight, breasts had been carved into bloodless ribbons.

“We’ll fix you right up, Baby,” he crooned. “New skin, new hair. Daddy’s gonna make you good as new.” He smiled down on his spoiled creation. “This really is the last time I let someone else play with my toys.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Chickens come home to roost, comeuppances are handed out, and what was sowed is reaped, part 1_

Suddenly,  _finally_ , Buffy felt her eyelids drooping.

All night and most of the morning, her thoughts had fractured and reformed and chased each other around until she didn’t think she could take it anymore. And on top of that, every time she heard the toilet flush, or steps on the stairs, or the murmur of speech somewhere in the house, her stomach lurched and every muscle in her body seized up for a second of visceral terror she could neither control nor understand.

The longer she lay awake in a house full of people, the more she felt like she’d gone six rounds with something big and nasty. She just wished everyone would shut up and go away.

But at long last, her body seemed to be relaxing. Unfortunately, after what felt like no time at all, she was jerking awake to the ear-shattering whine of a buzz saw. The noise seemed to go straight through her body. It felt like there should be bruises.

All she wanted was to  _sleep_.

She’d just forced her eyes closed again when Giles knocked on her door, telling her she really ought to start thinking about going to the hospital to fetch Dawn.

Snuggling deeper into her nest of covers and squeezing her eyes more tightly shut, she called out, “Can’t someone else go?” She was embarrassed by how whiny she sounded.

“You’re her legal guardian,” Giles said from the other side of her door. “I doubt very much they’d be willing to release her into anyone else’s custody.”

Knowing he was right, Buffy dragged herself out of bed and went to her door.

Giles immediately felt guilty for making her get up; she looked absolutely exhausted.

“Guess I’m hospital-bound-Buffy.” It was a valiant attempt at chirpy that failed dismally.

“Would you like me to drive you?” Giles asked.

“Nah,” Buffy said. “The walk’ll wake me up.”

Giles had a pained look on his face Buffy hadn’t seen since the last time she’d popped bubblegum in his presence.

“I doubt very much Dawn will be strong enough to walk home from the hospital,” he said oh-so-gently.

All she heard was oh-so-disappointed.

 _Oh god, I can’t do this. How can I be possibly be responsible for another person?_ Buffy dragged her lips up into something vaguely smile-like. “We’ll get a cab.”

“Of course,” Giles said softly. “Have you got cash for the fare?”

It broke his heart to watch her realise that she hadn’t.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara had opted to go to classes after she and Giles had forced Xander to accept that Willow was getting her control-freak on in the worst possible way. It surprised Xander at first, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Tara didn’t really have independent relationships with any of them – she had pretty much always just been Willow’s girlfriend. He felt a little bad about that – as Willow’s oldest and closest friend, he should know her girlfriend better than he did.

Xander was grateful he’d taken time off work to fix Buffy’s house this week. He didn’t think he could have handled the people part of work. And drywall required a lot of very precise measurements and almost no thinking, which meant it was the perfect distraction from the ballet corps of elephants dancing around the room that he was ruthlessly ignoring.

But now that Xander was mostly done upstairs – just had to sand, vacuum and paint once the mud was dry – his thoughts were free to dwell while he prepared to start on the downstairs.

Buffy’d looked like a reanimated corpse when she’d left for the hospital – although in his opinion, reanimated corpses generally looked  _way_  better than she had.  _What was that line? Live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse? Should be the official Sunnydale motto._

Giles had left straight after her, saying something about wanting to talk to Anya.

Xander was desperately struggling not to imagine how  _that_  conversation was going. He didn’t think he could bear it if Giles ever looked at Anya the way he’d looked at Tara this morning. Because he was certain his pity had been Tara’s tipping point. She’d stopped even  _trying_  to defend Willow after that, and it had shaken him. Badly.

Xander shivered. Willow was like his other half – his  _better_  half, even. She was the smart one, the responsible one. His conscience. His solace. He’d arrived at Revello Drive as early as he had mostly because he wanted to talk to her.

He wanted so badly to be able to pretend none of it had ever happened, for either of them. He didn’t think he could deal with darkness in her while he was still reeling from the darkness in  _him_.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Every last thing Giles had planned to say to Anya flew straight out of his head when he saw her counting up cash from the register and completely ignoring the two customers milling about the shop.

“Anya…” he started, frowning in concern. “Are you quite alright?”

She looked up from the money.

Her face was … the wrong colour? As Giles got closer, he could see the layers of makeup – particularly heavy under her left eye and around her neck.

“What happened?” he asked.

He reached out towards her, but faltered. They didn’t have the sort of relationship that involved comforting shoulder pats. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he’d  _ever_  seen Anya casually touch someone. When she did make physical contact, it was invariably over-effusive and either painfully explicit or unbearably awkward.

Anya hurriedly stuffed the cash back in the register, plastering on a customer-service smile. “Xander and I had a fight,” she said lightly. Her voice was hoarse and strained. It sounded painful.

Giles was astonished. “ _Xander_  did  _this_?”

Anya nodded.

“I’ve always known there was darkness in him,” Giles said slowly, his brow furrowing in concern. “But I never … short of demonic possession….” He moved closer to Anya and traced the air above the bruises on her neck that he could only just see through the concealer.  _Handprints._  There were  _handprints_  around her throat.

“Giles!” Anya said sharply, jerking away.

His eyes snapped to hers.

She was amazed to see barely contained rage there. “It wasn’t his fault,” she whispered firmly.

Giles’ eyebrows shot up. “You of all people ought to realise how  _that_  sounds.”

“I verbally emasculated him,” Anya said. “Repeatedly and quite viciously.” She grinned – with genuine pleasure. “It was actually quite gratifying to find I could still reduce a man to incoherent violence so quickly.”

Giles blinked a few times. “I’m disinclined to ignore this sort of behaviour from Xander a second time,” he said primly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever it is, you can’t let this change things,” Anya said, sounding slightly panicky. “You’re his family. He needs to not be  _that guy_  with you.”

“It is abundantly clear to me that he  _is_  ‘that guy’! He might have killed you.”

Anya put her hands on her hips and acquired an I’m-about-to-hit-you look that Giles found far more attractive than he was comfortable with.

“I stopped counting the number of people I killed hundreds of years ago.  _Hundreds!_ Vengeance was my only purpose in life for over a thousand years and I loved every single second of it.”

Giles was finding Anya’s strangulation-induced bedroom voice … disconcerting. Particularly coupled with what she was using it to say.

“What happened last night is nobody’s business but Xander’s and mine and if I choose to forgive him, you should damn’ well respect that.”

“How can you possibly stay with a man who would do this to you?”

“I’m not!” Anya said, still angry. “But that’s a separate issue entirely!”

It took Giles a while to formulate a response. Finally, he said, “You are a very unusual woman, Anya.”

Anya’s glare faltered. “Was that a compliment? I’m never really sure with you.”

A wistful smile broke across Giles’ face. “It was a compliment.”

“Good,” she said, nodding her head decisively. “Now that’s settled, tell me – what happened to break the protection spell last night?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn wasn’t sure if it was heightened vampire senses or some kind of arcane vampire-Slayer recognition, but whatever it was, Spike knew when Buffy was coming long before she did.

After the doctor had seen Dawn, she’d been allowed to put on her own clothes and move into the “Teen Lounge” –  _so lame_  – to wait for Buffy to come and take her home. To her surprise, none of the hospital staff had seemed overly bothered about Spike bypassing all the visitor registration stuff. She was glad – even if it  _was_  thrall. She didn’t think she could have handled being by herself in the hospital this long.

They’d been playing cards all morning, and when Dawn tried out her still-shaky bottom dealing for the third time there was a bright, shining moment when she really thought she was finally getting the hang of it. But then she saw that Spike’s non-reaction had absolutely nothing to do with her. His eyes were glazed-over and he had that half-dopey, half-hungry look that only ever appeared when Buffy was around.

She kicked him. Hard.

Spike snapped out of it – although Dawn thought it hurt her toes far more than it hurt his shin.

“What the bloody hell was that for?”

“You’re drooling.”

He glared.

And then Buffy came through the door. She looked pale and exhausted.

Then angry.

“What are  _you_  doing here?” she hissed at Spike.

“Hi, Buffy,” Dawn said, giving a slow, over-emphasised wave. “I’m all conscious again and feeling  _much_  better now, thanks so much for asking.”

Buffy flushed with embarrassment and guilt. “Sorry, Dawnie. Do you know when the doctor’s seeing you yet?”

“Yeah, like four hours ago.” Dawn said sullenly, slouching further into the embarrassingly hip and teen-friendly sofa, arms folded across her chest.

“Shouldn’t they have waited for me?”

“Why?” Dawn shrugged. “Spike was here.”

“Spike has no right to be here,” Buffy said through clenched teeth.

“An’ yet here I’ve been,” Spike drawled. “Where were you?”

All of Buffy’s fight went out of her. Saying that she’d been trying and failing to sleep sounded selfish and awful and she could already feel the weight of accusation in Dawn’s eyes. “Are you gonna be okay?” she asked in a subdued voice.

Dawn smelled a golden opportunity to guilt-trip her sister. “Oh yeah,” she said, eyes wide and innocent. “Month off school with full bed r—”

“Shut it, you,” Spike said firmly. “Doc said twenty-four to forty-eight hours’ rest, so Dawn’ll be goin’ back to school  _Monday_.”

“Okay,” Buffy said quietly.

As Spike ran through the aftercare information the doctor had given them, Buffy found herself struggling not to zone out. It frightened her. It had never been this hard to concentrate on the details of her mother’s care – and that had been  _way_  more complicated.

 _How did the vampire end up being the responsible one? What’s_ wrong _with me that I can’t look after an injured teenager?_

Buffy forced her focus away from her own head and that fascinating spot in the middle distance she couldn’t seem to stop staring at and back onto what Spike was telling her.

“If I still have a  _right_  to, I’ll make sure o’ that much,” he growled.

Buffy flinched and looked away.  _What’s he making sure of now?_  Panic flooded her system.  _I. Can’t. Do. This._

Spike cocked his head to one side, his anger forgotten as he listened to Buffy’s heartbeat go into hyperdrive and smelled the acrid tang of adrenaline flooding her system.

Dawn looked back and forth between the two of them while they stared at each other. Suddenly, she was exhausted and just wanted them to stop whatever weird fight-y, flirty  _thing_  they were doing this time and  _notice_  she couldn’t actually hold herself upright anymore and to  _know_  that what she really needed right then was to go home to her own bed and be out of the stupid hospital!

“Take me home now?” she whined.

Two sets of guilty eyes in contrite faces swivelled toward her.

Spike reached out to ruffle Dawn’s hair. “Course, pet.” He looked back towards Buffy, his face inscrutable. “Meet you there, yeah?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow slept through the morning. She had a vague recollection of having heard her parents get up and leave for work – completely oblivious to any signs she’d come home in the night – but it was fuzzy and indistinct.

But then again, everything was feeling a little fuzzy and indistinct – the aftereffects of a powerful spell breaking.

It didn’t help that being in her old room again was like being stuck in a time warp. Her good clothes and the objects she cared about had gone with her to the dorms, then to Buffy’s. All that was left here was mid-90s computer parts and programming manuals and her old,  _painfully_  embarrassing clothes. You could take out a vampire with the brightness of some of those colours.

Willow was suddenly struck by the most jarring difference:  _there’s no magic in this room._

She couldn’t imagine how she’d ever survived a life with no magic in it. It was hard to understand how she and room-girl who’d lived here could even be the same person.

Willow shivered, remembering Giles’ late-night phone call to his pet coven. He– or maybe  _they_  – wanted to make it so she couldn’t use magic anymore.

Despite the almost physical pain that thought caused her, Willow couldn’t help wondering whether maybe they’d be right to do it.

Her intentions had been so good….

But Tara had said she couldn’t trust her anymore. She’d looked so  _hurt_ , like something inside her had broken.  _All I wanted was to take back what I did!_

And Buffy….  _All I wanted was a do-over! A chance to … a chance to be_  there  _for her when she came back._

Dawnie needed to feel safe in her own home again. It had been pure luck she hadn’t died.

_Maybe if I just—_

Willow stopped.

 _You_  know  _what they say about the road to hell, Willow Rosenberg._

Willow finally found a – now  _very_  fitted – mid-calf-length black skirt she thought she’d last worn to a classmate’s funeral some time in the eighth grade and a pink Scooby-Doo shirt that was almost cute in a retro sort of way.

Examining the outfit in her mirror and feeling slightly naked without any of her makeup or hair products, her knees went weak as she was suddenly overcome by shame for daring to think about something as inconsequential as her appearance.

The girl who used to live in this room – the one who didn’t do magic unless it was life-or-death –  _she’d_  never cared about stupid things like that.

Tears burned at the back of her eyes as she left her bedroom and went downstairs.

She bypassed the kitchen – the thought of making the effort to feed herself just made her feel selfish. Anything she did now was just putting off going back to Buffy’s: to face them, and accept whatever punishment they wanted to give her.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“So Spike thinks it’s Jenoff?” Anya looked thoughtful. “Losing his contracts  _would_  make him go off the deep end. And he can certainly afford the Order of Taraka.”

“You know him?” Giles asked, surprised.

“ _Everyone_  knows Jenoff’s Casino. It’s where you go ‘to get what you need’,” Anya said scathingly. “He came up with that line sometime in the twenties.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s pathetically proud of it.”

“Yes. Well. Presumably, once we’ve confirmed who has paid the Order, we can end the contract. It would be infinitely preferable not to have assassins continuing to pop up willy-nilly.”

Anya made no effort to hide her surprise. “Frankly, I’m amazed you’re not suggesting we wrap Spike up in a bow and leave him out for them.”

Giles frowned. “Spike has been an … er, ally … for quite some time.”

Anya snorted. “Only because Buffy wouldn’t let you kill him.”

“I don’t recall you ever being particularly vocal in his defence,” Giles said drily.

Anya’s eyes darkened. “I’m a survivor, Giles. Or I was, before I became human again. And I may never have spoken up for the vampires, but when it’s my turn, I won’t be waiting around to hear who speaks for me. I’ll be long gone.”

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Giles chided. “Niemöller? Really?” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m impressed.”

Anya looked embarrassed. “I don’t know the guy. I think Spike said the original piece to me once.” She shrugged. “We were reminiscing about war.”

“Ah,” Giles said.

Anya let out a happy sigh.

 _Fond remembrance_ , Giles thought with a shudder.

“You know, Bohdan’s convinced the whole job was a set up.”

“Have you spoken to Spike about this?” Giles asked sharply.

“Haven’t had the chance,” Anya said, shrugging. “I don’t even think he knows we’ve been paid.”

“You’ve been  _paid_?” Giles asked incredulously.

“Why does everyone find that so hard to believe? Yes!” Anya’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not giving it back.”

Giles gave her a disapproving look.

Anya sniffed haughtily. “I’m still not quite sure how and why Bohdan got involved in the first place.”

“He’s been watching Dawn and the people around her since June,” Giles said absently.

Anya opened her eyes wide. “Spike said he thought someone was following him. I thought he was just being paranoid.” She sighed. “I hate it when he’s right. He  _gloats_. It’s very annoying.”

Giles found himself letting loose a tiny snigger. Spike  _did_  gloat. And it was  _very_  annoying. “How on earth did you end up doing business with him in the first place?”

Anya shrugged. “He had a pair of  _Krolgarth_  claws. Do you have any idea how much just  _one_  of those sells for?”

“Some idea, yes.”

“It was good business, Giles. Spike has a real gift for killing things and stripping them for parts.”

“It’s good business to launder money through  _my_  shop?”

She looked affronted, rather than repentant. Giles wasn’t sure why he’d expected anything else.

“ _Your_  shop? You signed over day-to-day control to me. And you made it  _abundantly_  clear that you didn’t want to be called once you’d gone.”

Giles shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s all commissions from stuff Spike does, and he doesn’t legally exist! It was far easier to just create a second ledger for the human system.”

“You might have told  _me_.”

“I send you financial reports every month,” Anya said angrily. “Truthful ones!”

Giles looked sheepish. “I’m sorry if I’ve been … remiss.”

“Good. You should be sorry.”

“Yes, well.” He harrumphed. “Er, more tea?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow goggled at the smoke and soot damage to everything within a fifty foot radius of Buffy’s house, and the near-total absence of fire-y destruction to the house itself.

_That musta been a doozy of a spell._

Willow semi-successfully squashed the tiny voice inside her saying it should have been her and Tara doing it, not Giles and Anya.

_How did I not notice any of this last night?_

They still hadn’t replaced the door.

Of course, no front door meant it was no longer a problem that she didn’t have her key, and – added bonus – there could be no door-face slamming-type incidents.

Taking a deep breath and trying to control the sick lurching in her stomach, Willow walked up the steps to the porch.

“Hello?” she called out, her heart in her mouth. “Anybody home? It’s Willow.”


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Chickens come home to roost, comeuppances are handed out, and what was sowed is reaped, part 2_

Xander really hadn’t expected to see Willow standing outside the door.

She looked broken.

He knew there was no way they were talking about  _his_  problems any time soon.

But that was okay. Willow was his family, and right now she needed him to be  _her_  conscience,  _her_  solace. He could do that.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn was sulky and unresponsive as Buffy wheeled her out of the hospital and helped her into a taxi.

Buffy was almost grateful for it. Because while part of her wanted to grab on to Dawn and hold on for dear life, tell her how terrified she’d been last night and how keeping her safe was one of the very few things she actually still cared about, the bigger part of her didn’t even know how to start that conversation. It felt too late to say or do any of those things without it seeming like she’d been shamed into it.

Buffy didn’t understand how Dawn and Spike could have such easy physicality with each other. Hugs, sure, in times of great emotional upheaval. She could understand that. But the hair ruffles and the hip bumping and the lingering touches that seemed to be  _just because_?

She couldn’t understand how  _he_  could do it so easily. She’d had to work  _so hard_  to learn not to hurt people accidentally.

_Stupid vampire._

And Dawn had never been touchy-feely before! She’d been completely freaked out the last time Buffy remembered trying to hug her.

She looked over at Dawn, slumped against the door, her whole body curled against it to get as far away from her as she possibly could.

_You’re terrified of hurting her … it’s cutting you both to ribbons. Damn him._

Buffy shifted along the seat until her thigh was almost touching Dawn’s, and – very tentatively – started putting an arm around her.

The look of distrustful shock on Dawn’s face nearly made her shuffle back to the other side of the car.

But somehow she forced herself to keep going, despite the fact that it felt stiff and fake.

Dawn … submitted … to Buffy’s arm. She didn’t shrug it off, but her body went totally rigid, as if she was trying to hold herself slightly away.

It was almost unbearable.

But just as Buffy was ready to give up and move away, Dawn seemed to let go and slump against her.

It gave Buffy the courage to relax, too, so the full weight of her arm lay across Dawn’s narrow shoulders, and they were very slightly leaning into each other.

Their silence was still uneasy, but the edge had gone.

Buffy didn’t remember ever feeling so exhausted.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles ground the slice of lemon against the side of the mug with a teaspoon.

“Talk me through Buffy’s finances?”

He added a spoonful of honey, and passed the mug to Anya.

“Well, I got Willow and Tara and Spike to start paying rent, so she  _would_  have been okay – just about. But if any of them move out now….”

“Yes,” Giles said. “Quite.”

Anya took a sip and made a face. “More honey!” she demanded, passing the mug back.

Giles complied.

“Of course, the rent would never have covered the repairs to the house. I got Tito to agree to a payment plan for the pipes, but Buffy’s still got to give him  _something_ ; then there’s the busted windows, a new washer and dryer … I’ve got a list somewhere.”

“Could you get it for me?”

Anya nodded.

“If I were to write a cheque….”

Anya’s eyebrows shot up. “Lucky Buffy,” she said lightly, if slightly venomously.

“I can hardly stand by and watch while she drowns in debt. She could lose the house!”

Anya groaned in frustration. “Buffy’s got access to her own damn’ money! It’ll just take time and effort and her dialling down the crazy for five minutes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she’s still got all of Joyce’s gallery stock. It’s tens of thousands of dollars if she sells it off … even with the terrible returns she’ll get from a bulk sale like that.” Anya looked pained at the thought of the lost profits.

“Good Lord,” Giles breathed.

“Just getting it out of storage would knock a few hundred off her monthly expenses,” Anya said drily.

“I’d completely forgotten we did that.”

“I’d like to see the gallery up and running again,” Anya said, a little wistfully. “It would take work to get the clientele back, but it could be done. And if Buffy hired someone to manage it for her on commission, she’d have a steady income without many hours.”

“That’s a brilliant idea, Anya.”

“No need to sound  _quite_  so shocked,” Anya said huffily.

Giles swallowed a smile. “Is that it? Or are you about to dazzle me with more of your brilliance?”

Anya gave him a suspicious look. “Are you making fun of me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.”

Looking slightly mollified, Anya continued. “Well, I called the CSSD about child support payments for Dawn. They said the money’s been coming in every month since Joyce died, but no one’s filed change-of-custody paperwork, so there’s at least seven thousand dollars just sitting there plus another thousand every month ‘til Dawn’s eighteen.”

Giles sat down abruptly. “Seven  _thousand_  dollars?”

“So if you  _really_  want to write a cheque, I think I need it far more than Buffy does.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander watched Buffy and Dawn stumble awkwardly into the hallway. It was obvious Buffy was practically carrying Dawn.

They both looked exhausted, and Dawn was almost the same colour as the white bandage on her neck.

Willow shifted a little from where her face was semi-buried in Xander’s chest and saw them. She let out a gasp. The noise was enough to make the girls turn toward where she and Xander were sitting the sofa.

“I – how ya doin’, Dawnie?” Willow asked tentatively, pulling herself upright and uncurling her legs to put her feet on the floor.

Buffy stared down at Willow’s shoes where they lay discarded on the hall floor. She didn’t know how to feel about Willow anymore.

Dawn did. “You keep away from me,” she said, fear leaking through the edges of her righteous indignation.

Willow crumpled back onto the sofa. “I’m so sorry _,_ ” she said. “I screwed up.  _Everything_. If something had happened to you last night, something worse….”

“What, like if I’d been  _totally_  drained instead of just mostly?” Dawn said, her voice cracking with emotion. Buffy could feel her whole body vibrating.

“I’m  _sorry_ ,” Willow said. “I never thought – I never meant for – I’m so, so sorry.”

“C’mon, Dawn,” Buffy said quietly. “Let’s get you upstairs.” Buffy was amazed by how calm she sounded. “You need to rest.”

Buffy hadn’t looked at Willow once.

Willow collapsed into tears again. But while Xander had been willing to just hold her while she cried the last time, now he pulled back.

“Willow,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You need to stop the pity party. As much as it hurts, you are not the victim here.”

“I – I  _know_ ,” Willow whimpered. “I – I d-don’t m-mean to be such a basket case.”

Xander sighed. “I just don’t get it. I love you and I trust you, but … some of the stuff Giles and Tara said this morning … and after what we did to Dawn? You’re kinda scaring me.”

Buffy came back down the stairs just in time to hear Willow say, “Everything’s been so  _wrong_. I just wanted to make it right again.”

The apathy that was sucking Buffy under more and more every day had already absorbed the faint stirring of anger she’d felt before taking Dawn upstairs. She leaned against the doorframe to the living room.

Xander thought she was holding herself upright through sheer will power.

“Why is there a bar on Dawn’s door?” Buffy asked, her voice calm and even.

Xander was shocked. “Bleach boy didn’t tell you?”

Buffy shook her head no.

The dread building up in Willow’s stomach was starting to be overwhelming. Her face crumpled.

“B-Buffy, I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

“Okay,” Buffy said. “So you’re sorry. That’s … nice for you, I guess.”

And then they told her.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Don’t you think it’s a little odd that Bohdan showed up when he did?” Anya mused.

“Perhaps,” Giles said. “But when would it have been  _less_  odd? While Glory was alive? Or perhaps in six months’ time? When I’m sure we’ll be stopping some other idiot from destroying the world.”

“Why show up at all, though?”

Giles sighed. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

“I think there’s something he isn’t telling us.”

“I expect there are a great many things he isn’t telling us. But Spike seems to—” Giles stopped in shock. “Do you know, I was just going to say ‘Spike trusts him’ as if it meant something? I must be going mad.”

Anya snorted. “Name three people Spike trusts.”

Giles scowled.

“Oh, come on, Giles!” Anya groaned. “You’re too smart to believe the Council’s party line about vampires. If their minds survive that first bloodlust, it’s just how people deal with power. No more, no less.”

“I am very aware how … simplistic … official Council doctrine is,” Giles said stiffly. “But I also truly believe it is for the benefit of the Slayers. They cannot afford to think of them as  _people_. The psychological toll alone….”

Anya sighed. “Murder changes you. Of course it does.”

Giles flinched – more from the knowing look in Anya’s eyes than from her words.

“I can understand why you’d want to save her from that,” Anya continued, almost gently. “But there are worse things than learning to live with murder.”

“She’s fighting a war,” Giles said quietly. “A Slayer’s life—”

“Is brutish and short. Yadda yadda.” Anya huffed. “So stop trying to protect her from a reality no one can change and start helping her deal with it! Buffy’s  _already_  broken and halfway crazy, Giles.” She shivered. “You don’t want another Elizabeth Báthory, do you?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow couldn’t understand it. She’d expected anger, recriminations, tears, something! Buffy was  _never_  this calm. “D-dontcha wanna yell at me?”

Xander laid his head in his hands. This was not going well.

“Is that why you came back? To be punished?” Buffy asked lightly, still staring at Willow with flat, expressionless eyes. “Sorry, not really in the mood right now.”

Willow was lost. She couldn’t figure out what was going on in Buffy’s head. It was so tempting to just follow the path back into her mind, use the connection she’d made last year…. She was halfway there before she realised what she was doing and pulled herself back. Once upon a time, Buffy had confided in her willingly. And more than anything else, Willow wanted to have her best friend back.

“I j-just wanted you to be  _happy_  again,” Willow said softly.

Buffy flinched.  _Happy. She just wanted me to be happy._  How ironic that Willow should pull her out of heaven and then take away her memories so she could be  _happy._  Buffy thought about laughing, but found she lacked the energy.

Then she thought about sharing the joke with Willow.

Willow’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, her skin blotchy and mottled. She looked anguished and guilty and in pain. Buffy felt absolutely nothing.

_‘You do everything for love’, my foot!_

Spike was right about one thing, at least: the truth made a fine weapon.

Willow started to feel uncomfortable with the way Buffy was looking at her. It felt almost … predatory.

“I thought I could make things better,” Willow said softly.

“Go poof, all better?” Buffy’s lips twisted into a bitter half-smile. “Don’t you know it doesn’t work that way? It never gets better. You just get used to the pain.”

“Buffy….” Xander started.

“Gonna defend her, Xand?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m worried about  _you_. You just get used to the  _pain_? You never used to think like that.”

Buffy stared off into the middle distance, while her two best friends watched her uncomfortably.  _I’m not who I used to be._

“But … aren’t you happy to be back?” Willow asked finally. “I mean, I get that the journey was kinda traumatic … but this has  _gotta_  be better than where you were. Right?”

There was another long silence, while Buffy shut her eyes and desperately tried not to think of where she’d been, because if she did she was afraid she’d start crying and never be able to stop.

There was a sudden explosion of noise and movement as Spike burst into the hallway in a riot of clomping boots and smoke.

He shook out the blanket he’d used to dash from the sewer and draped it over the newel post.

It was disconcerting how little Buffy reacted.

Spike came to stand just behind her, his chest a whisper away from her back, one hand cupping the air just above her shoulder.

Buffy shivered. She even said, “Don’t touch me.” But she didn’t move away, and she barely seemed aware of his presence.

Spike let his hand drop, but didn’t move from his position at Buffy’s back.

“She said don’t touch her,” Xander said, standing up and taking a threatening step towards the doorway.

Buffy was still staring off into the middle distance.

Spike stepped back, hands up. “Fine. Bollocks to the lot of you.” He turned on his heel and went upstairs. They heard him opening and closing a door – presumably Dawn’s.

“Buffy?” Willow said tentatively.

“You need to leave, Will,” Buffy said, finally. “I can’t trust you around Dawn anymore.”

Xander sighed. He’d expected this. Looking at Willow, she clearly hadn’t.

“B-but—”

“No, Wills. No arguments,” Xander said. “C’mon, I’ll help you pack.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy spent the next few hours in her room, hiding from all of the things she knew she  _ought_  to be doing, while they were done by someone else.

When Xander finally went home, and there was no more movement in the house, Buffy decided she should probably fulfil the slaying part of her responsibilities. She was good at killing things, even if she was worse than useless at everything else.

She crept downstairs, went to the weapons chest and pulled out a stake. As she slipped it into her waistband, she felt the telltale vampire tingle behind her.

“Not lettin’ you go out like this.” Spike said, stepping between her and the door.

“You won’t  _let_  me?”

She was nowhere near as outraged as she should have been.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” he shouted, his frustration getting the better of him. “You’ve been actin’ right weird all day.”

Buffy shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“Bollocks!” Spike’s every instinct was screaming ‘prey’. “You smell like a victim,” he sneered.

“I’m no victim,” Buffy said quietly, staring at her stake.

He watched her for a few seconds. She was shifty,  _guilty_. “There was something off about you before your little visit from the super friends,” he said slowly. He groaned. “This is about killing that poor defenceless human assassin, innit? Bet you’ve decided you’re not worthy or some such. You selfish bitch.”

“How dare you call me selfish? You’re a  _vampire_!”

“Look at yourself,” he sneered. “Today is any fucker’s good day, right there for the takin’. You wanna wallow in guilt? Fine! Do it in the soddin’ bathroom. Make yourself bleed again. Do whatever the fuck you have to do so’s you don’t lose the first fight you get in and abandon us! Again!”

“How  _dare_  you!” Buffy sputtered.

“Biggest threat to a Slayer’s her own death wish.” Spike put as much disdain into his voice as he could. “You couldn’t fight off a kitten, the place your head’s at right now.”

Buffy broke his nose with her perfect little fist.

He didn’t even flinch; he just kept staring at her while he readjusted the cartilage. “Weak.” He licked a trickle of blood off of his upper lip. “Now you gonna tell me what the fuck it is about killin’ this bloke’s sending you off the soddin’ deep end?”

Buffy seriously considered just punching him until he stopped talking. Her arms and hands itched with the desire to lay into him. How  _dare_  he talk to her about killing people?

“You’ve killed human Taraka assassins before – must’ve done. Don’ recall you bein’ racked with guilt about  _them_.”

Buffy punched him again, but before she connected, he moved, faster than she could see, and when he came to a stop, her fist was cradled in his hand, and he was standing two feet to her right.

His thumb started stroking hers. Its gentleness was totally at odds with the way he was staring at her. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“He gave me an out last night,” Buffy said finally, reluctantly.

Spike sighed. “After which, you left him  _unconscious_ , not dead. I was wrong about you, Slayer. You’re not half in love with death, you’re fully in love with sodding  _guilt_!”

“Where do you get off telling me how to feel? Do you even know what guilt is?”

“Course I do! I’m a monster not a bloody robot!”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “If you had a soul you’d understand.”

Gentling his voice slightly, Spike said, “That assassin tried to burn the house down, Love. With all of us inside. An’ when that didn’t work, he threw a door at Tara an’ tried to take Willow’s head off with a poker. Then he dislocated your shoulder. How was killin’ him by sodding  _accident_  not self-defence?”

“It wasn’t an accident! I wanted him dead.” Buffy wouldn’t look at him.

Spike had a sudden wonderful, terrible idea. “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

“Yeesh, full of yourself much?” Buffy didn’t quite manage the nonchalance she was trying for.

“It hurts you that much to admit you care whether I live or die?”

“It hurts me that much to admit I care so little for my duty!”

Spike cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. “So killin’ someone with a soul’s fine so long as it saves someone else with one?”

Buffy nodded.

“Last I heard, the witches were soulful as they come. Rupes too.”

“None of  _that_  would’ve happened if I’d just let him kill you at the laundrette!”

“Ah! Now we get to it.” Spike laughed. “You protected your family. It’s what you do. Who you are.”

“You’re not my family!” she shouted.

“I was when you killed him!” he roared.

Buffy reeled back as if he’d hit her.

“But we won’t ever talk about  _that_ , will we, Love?” He was staring at her so hard, it felt like he was drilling into her soul. “What we had … what we lost.” Spike shut his eyes, unable to bear seeing her any longer. “Would you really rather I was dead?”

When Spike finally looked at her, there were tears in her eyes.

“Guess that’s somethin’,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay lovelies, this story is now completely caught up here on AO3. Apologies for spoiling you with such speedy updates, but it's going to be more like once every 7-10 days from here on in. Thank you in advance for staying with me!


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everyone still needs to eat and sleep and work_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I lied about the updates being slow.... AO3 is really, truly, genuinely caught up now.

Tara was relieved to see a new front door at 1630 Revello Drive when she returned from classes. The house was dark and silent, but as long as her key still worked in the lock, she didn’t much care whether it was because the other occupants were out or asleep.

She dropped her bag in the hallway and went straight to the fridge, dragging her feet in anticipation of the exhausting prospect of cooking. Tara wasn’t feeling overly hopeful about leftovers – yesterday’s mole had never made it to the fridge.

To her immense relief, four tupperware boxes had appeared while she’d been out. Tupperware meant Dawn and Spike were home and – probably – a day lacking in drama.

The first container held a half-portion of salad.

_Meh._

Tara grinned when she opened the second one. She knew this dish. It  _did_  have vegetables in it, but experience told her she wouldn’t taste anything but cream and bacon.

_Mmmmm bacon._

She glowed when she opened container number four.

_Definitely no crises_ , she thought.  _There’s crumble._

She decanted containers two and three (rice) into a bowl ready for the microwave.

Then she ate all of the crumble.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander stood outside the door to his and Anya’s apartment for a long time before he went in.

Anya was sitting on the sofa in a pair of satiny lounging pyjamas he’d got her last Christmas, reading what he assumed was the financial section of the paper.

It was the only part she ever read.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey, yourself,” she said.

“Can it be last week again?” Xander sighed.

Anya smiled. “You’re back late.”

Xander sighed. “Didn’t get as much done today as I’d hoped.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“There’s half a quiche in the fridge.”

“What’s in it?”

“Spinach and cheese.”

Xander opened the fridge and immediately gagged at the vomit-inducing fumes emanating from the quiche. “No, thanks. Think I’ll pass.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “You have no appreciation for good food. How can  _anyone_  not like Roquefort?”

“How do you still have nose hairs?”

Anya watched Xander pull out the last of the ham and his package of horrendously bland American cheese.

She made a face at him. “That’s neither American nor cheese, you know,” she said petulantly.

It was an old, familiar,  _comforting_  argument.

As Xander was taking his first bite of sandwich, she blurted out, “I found a place.”

Xander crammed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth to stop himself from saying anything he might regret five seconds later.

All of his attention was immediately diverted to not choking on it.

Slightly winded, Xander slumped against the kitchen counter. “I thought you’d want to stay here,” he said quietly. “You  _love_  this place.”

Anya sighed. “I loved it for  _us_.”

Xander rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Richard said he’d put me up ‘til I find something … he’s, uh, he’s still got that spare room.” Their eyes met while they remembered happier times in Richard’s spare room.

Xander broke away from their tentatively shared smile, dropping his plate and knife into the sink a little too loudly.

Anya stared down at her hands. They were smudged and inky from the newspaper. “Maybe we can find someone to sublet?” she suggested, gathering up the sections of the newspaper and folding them back together before putting it on the table. “We can’t break the lease until April.”

Xander couldn’t believe how  _practical_  she was being. As if he could even begin to care about breaking the lease! He couldn’t understand how she could be so calm about the idea of leaving this place –  _their_  place.

Despite himself, Xander found himself saying, “Giles might want it.” His voice sounded wrong, like someone else was talking through his mouth. He forced out a weak smile. “It’d get him off the couch.”

“He bought a new mattress for the basement this afternoon,” Anya said. “But that’s a good idea.”

Xander wanted to scream.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Just as Tara was sitting down to eat the dinner part of her dinner, the basement door opened and Giles came through.

“Tara,” he said, smiling in greeting. “How are you?”

Tara shrugged and smiled back. “Tired, mostly. Thursdays are exhausting at the best of times.”

“I, er, I spoke to the Devon Coven,” he said quietly.

Suddenly the dish of bacon-y deliciousness lost its appeal.

“They don’t believe it’s possible to bind Willow’s powers reliably.” Giles continued, running one hand through his hair. “She’s just too strong.”

Tara didn’t quite know how to feel about that. Willow’s use of magic and her identity as a witch were so strongly connected to her sense of self, taking them away would be like turning her into a different person. But Tara was afraid of what Willow might do in a way she never had been before – and with her powers bound, she would at least be restricted to mundane things like phone calls.

“They had an alternative suggestion,” Giles continued. “A spell to create a link, between practitioners. Any time one uses magic, the other will know.”

Tara’s eyes met Giles’. “And you want  _me_  to d-d-do it?”

Giles nodded slowly. “Ordinarily, I would be the first to say that you are too close to the situation, and that you should not be involved in anything that Willow might interpret as, er, punishment.”

Tara’s stomach gave a little lurch. “B-but she’s so much stronger than me. I don’t understand how knowing when she’s using magic can help.”

“Asking you to be Willow’s … partner … in this will mean that any time she attempts to use magic on you, it will have no effect.” He sighed. “Ordinarily, the spell is used as a safety measure for some of the more ungovernable earth magicks – to ensure at least one person remains unaffected if something goes wrong.”

Tara sighed. “I can’t deny I’d feel safer,” she said slowly. “But I still don’t understand how it  _helps_.”

“It is infinitely better than doing nothing.” Giles smiled weakly.

Tara dipped her head to acknowledge the point.

“My  _hope_  is that if Willow cannot hide her magical activities, it will inspire her to exercise some self-control.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“But it’s  _idiotic_  for you to sleep on the sofa!” Anya huffed. “It’s uncomfortable, and will likely result in you injuring your back.” More quietly, she said, “There’s no reason we can’t share a bed for a night or two.”

Xander’s head flooded with images from last night: Anya laughing, daring him to hit her, to show her he was a  _real_  man. “There’s  _every_  reason!” he snapped. “How can you be so … so  _normal_  about all this?”

“Would you rather I was hysterical? I  _understand_  subletting! I  _understand_  sleeping arrangements! I  _don’t understand_  what’s happening between us! It hurts, Xander! It  _hurts_  and don’t understand why I don’t want you to die a slow and painful death!”

“You  _should_  want that!” Xander shouted. “Why don’t you hate me?” His voice broke. “You should hate me.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike shifted to grind out the embers of his cigarette with the toe of his boot. His knee glanced against Buffy’s.

“You better not be marking up my steps,” she said.

It was the first time she’d spoken since they’d gone outside.

Spike lifted his boot and nudged the butt off the step and onto the path. “Tiny smudge,” he said.

She knocked her knee against his. “Says you.”

She leaned back to look up at the sky.

There was a thunk as a shuriken embedded itself in the post centimetres from Spike’s left shoulder.

“What the fu—  _Ow_!” A second star went into his shoulder.

Tara and Giles looked up in shock at the shouts from outside.

Then the back door burst open and Spike and Buffy tumbled through it.

Spike hissed in pain as he pulled the shuriken out of his shoulder.

“Wimp,” Buffy said.

He glared at her, and threw the star – almost as big as his palm – into the sink. “Nicked bone, that did. Bloody hurts!” Spike cocked his head to one side, frowning. He could feel his knees going weak. “Bugger,” he said, slapping his hands on the counter in an attempt to remain upright. He blinked once. Twice. Then he slid to the floor, unconscious.

Giles and Tara stared down at Spike’s very still body sprawled out on the floor.

“Er, what’s happening?” Giles asked weakly, turning to Buffy with a bewildered expression.

“We have ninjas,” Buffy said brightly. “Or maybe ninja? Only saw the shiny pointy things.”

Tara gently prodded Spike with one foot. When he failed to react at all, she asked, “Should we be worried?”

“Not dusty, not a problem,” Buffy said wryly. She still hadn’t looked at him since he fell.

“A-and the ninjas…?” Tara asked, half-turning towards the back door.

Buffy shrugged. “You guys re-did the protection spell this morning, right?”

Giles and Tara nodded.

“Then Sleeping Ugly here oughtta be safe enough. I’m guessing ‘ninja’ means they’re making with the stealthy.”

Buffy stepped over Spike to take a glass from the cupboard. She turned on the tap and let it run cold before filling it with water.

Giles and Tara watched her in silence

Finally, Giles asked, “Shouldn’t you be, er, going after the ninjas?”

Buffy took a small sip of water. She stared down at Spike, the merest ghost of a smile hovering over her lips.

“I kinda promised I’d take tonight off.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles claimed exhaustion and went back downstairs to bed not long after Spike had been manhandled onto the sofa.

The girls returned to the kitchen. “So, I uh … I kinda kicked Willow out again,” Buffy said.

Tara nodded uncertainly. She looked at her now-cold dinner.  _Bacon will still taste good cold, right?_

“Just so you don’t, you know, freak out when you go upstairs,” Buffy continued. “She packed up a bunch of stuff and took it with her this afternoon.”

Tara forced herself to take a bite of dinner.

It tasted like sawdust. Tara forced herself to swallow.

“Where is she now?” Tara asked, amazed at how normal she sounded.

Buffy shrugged helplessly. “Her parents’, I guess?”

Tara nodded again.

“So … you gonna go after her?” Buffy asked, clearly expecting the answer to be some form of when, rather than if.

“No,” Tara said quickly in a low, firm voice.

Buffy’s eyes widened. “Really? I thought—”

“Willow … messed with my memory. Before.”

“Oh,” Buffy said, surprised.

Tara’s heart sank. Buffy would be just like Xander – unwilling to believe Willow would hurt her.

“Well, you’re not included in the kicking-out-age,” Buffy faltered. “So….”

Tara smiled weakly. “Thanks. But I think it’s probably better if I leave.” She took a deep breath. “I mean, you’re Willow’s friend.”

“Yours too,” Buffy said quickly.

“I think I might need some time on my own,” Tara said. She wasn’t sure if it was true, but time alone seemed like something she  _should_  need.

“Oh,” Buffy said, forcing a smile.

They sat in slightly strained silence while Tara ate more of her dinner in tiny bites.

“I never thanked you,” Tara said suddenly.

Buffy looked puzzled.

“I thought I was going to die last night, and you saved me. So … thank you.”

“Um, you’re welcome, I guess. It’s … it’s just my thing.”

“Maybe, but … it’s always nice to be thanked, right?”

“Right,” Buffy said awkwardly. “Guess you probably wouldn’t  _want_  to stay here anyway. I mean, you know, there’s all that pesky life-threatening danger … ninjas … demons….”

“D-do you  _want_  me to stay?” Tara asked, genuinely curious.

The words ‘Of course I do,’ rose up in Buffy’s throat but never quite made it out of her mouth. “I don’t know,” she said finally. The honesty felt weird and uncomfortable. But … also a relief?

“I don’t really know, either,” Tara said encouragingly. “M-maybe neither of us need to make a decision right now?”

Buffy nodded, grateful.

Their shared silence was more comfortable after that.

When she went up to bed not long after, Buffy was armed with a giant mug of sleepy tea from Tara.

She was quietly hopeful it would work better than the makeshift gag she’d constructed the previous night.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Late the next morning, Spike burst through the door to the Magic Box, sizzling slightly. “Anya, luv!” he said, throwing off his blanket with a flourish. “You’re looking exceptionally lovely today!”

Anya looked at him suspiciously. “I’m not lending you money.”

Giles opened his mouth to speak, a perplexed look on his face; a swift and vicious elbow to his ribs made it snap shut again.

Spike was too busy trying to look winsome to notice. “What makes you think I want money?”

“You never compliment me unless you want something.”

Spike scowled, his lower lip threatening to curl into a pout. “Do so!”

“Shouldn’t you be in hiding?” she asked.

Spike shrugged. “Got the same protection spell here as at the Slayer’s, right? ‘M safe enough.”

Giles rolled his eyes. “Coming here was a stupid risk to take after last night.”

“Everyone’s out or sleepin’,” Spike said, unrepentant and whiny. “‘M  _bored_.”

“I have some translation work for you,” Anya said brightly. “That would keep the boredom away  _and_  solve your money problems.”

Spike groaned.

“Translation work?” Giles asked weakly.

Anya nodded.

“You’ve got  _him_  translating magical texts?”

Anya burst out laughing.

Spike glared at her. It only made her laugh harder.

“You have  _got_  to be kidding!” Anya wheezed. “Spike only understands Latin when it’s basically French; his Sumerian and Aramaic are non-existent; and he wouldn’t know a dead demon language if it bit his leg off!”

Spike’s expression got steadily darker.

Giles looked puzzled. “What’s he translating, then?”

“He talks to  _suppliers_!” Anya looked accusingly at Giles. “After you left, I found out Professor Svec doesn’t speak any English. And she wasn’t the only one.”

Giles shrunk into his shoulders a little. Svec was important. “Sorry?”

“Lucky for the Magic Box,” Anya said huffily, “Spike speaks Czech. Mostly. But even better,” Anya’s eyes glittered, “he’s hooked me up with  _demon_  suppliers. Do you have any idea how ignorant most of them are of the value of the American dollar?” Anya looked gleeful. “I’ve nearly  _halved_  our stock costs.”

“Who do you want me to call?” Spike asked sulkily.

Anya was suddenly all business. “Betinho Souza. His shipment arrived today and half the ‘chrysalises’ were dead moths. I want a full refund, plus new chrysalises by the end of the week.”

Spike pursed his lips. “Fifty.”

“Ten.”

“Fifty!”

“You’re desperate. And I have Giles, who will do it for free.”

“Twenty?”

“Ten.”

“Bitch!”

Anya smiled serenely.

Spike stomped off to the office in the back.

“Don’t you have twenty-something  _thousand_  for him from last weekend?” Giles whispered.

Anya grinned. “Yes, but Spike won’t call Souza unless he’s desperate.” She waved a hand airily. “I’ll tell him about his money when he gets off the phone.” She sighed. “Poor money. It’ll probably get squandered on kittens.”

Giles repeated  _Not interfering_  to himself several times before saying, “ _I_  could have called Souza.”

“Are you back for good?” Anya asked.

Giles sighed. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Then it’s better if Spike deals with it.”

An enraged roar of a not-terribly-Portuguese-sounding “ _Porra boiola!_ ” erupted from the back room.

Giles winced. “Are you certain of that?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Duster pockets bulging with cash and in an infinitely better mood, Spike vaulted himself up to sit on the counter and started tapping out a rhythm with his heels.

“You break that glass, you’re paying for it,” Anya growled.

Spike rolled his eyes. But he stopped swinging his legs.

She looked at him, appraising, lips pursed. “You’re a man.”

“Uh, got the bits for it, yeah….” He shifted around uncomfortably.

“And we’re friends, aren’t we?” Anya asked.

“You tryin’ to borrow money from  _me_  now?”

Anya scowled. “Stop posturing. It’s infantile.” Allowing just the slightest hint of vulnerability to show in her voice, she asked, “So are we?”

Spike stared at her for a few seconds. “S’pose so,” he said finally, warily.

“Can  _you_  tell me why the sex didn’t make things better?”

Spike shook his head in confusion. “Come again?”

“Sex  _always_  used to make things better.”

“Ha! Knew Harris was droopy.”

Anya smacked his chest backhanded. “Not like  _that_.”

Spike smirked. “Alright. I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.”

“The sex was wonderful…. But it  _hurt_.”

“More’n that love-tap to your eye and that fetchin’ new necklace?” Spike asked.

“ _Metaphorical_  hurt. Well … mostly, anyway. But I don’t  _understand_.”

“Don’t understand what, luv?”

“I  _love_  make-up sex. It makes me feel….”

“Alive?”

“Yes! Exactly. But last night was … it made me feel like I was dying. And not in a metaphorical way!”

“What the bloody hell did you expect, taking up with that git of a man-child?”

Anya sighed. “You’re better at being human than I am,” she whined.

“Are you off your nut?” Spike was scandalised. “You’re the one with the great and glorious soul.”

“You understand love, don’t you?”

Spike laughed. “ _No one_  understands love. ‘S one of life’s unfathomable mysteries.”

“I don’t want to hurt this much anymore! And I don’t understand why I’m absolutely certain that Xander loves me and I love him but that it’s  _still over_. How can two people love each other and it’s over? How does that even work?”

“Always reckoned love conquered all,” Spike said darkly. “Experience keeps teachin’ me otherwise.” He sighed. “You ever figure it out, pet, you be sure an’ let me know, yeah?”

Anya let out a grunt of frustration. “Well  _you’re_  no use as a friend, are you?”

“Oi! Soddin’ listened, didn’ I?”

“What point is there in talking to you about my problems if you’re not going to help me fix them?”

“Christ, woman! You can’t  _fix_  heartbreak!”

“Why not?” Anya wailed.

“It’s supposed to hurt! Would you rather feel nothing?”

“ _Yes!_ ” she said emphatically. “What kind of idiot would choose to feel this awful?”

After a few seconds, Spike started laughing.

Eventually, Anya joined in.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bring out the Geeks!

Whatever Tara put in that sleepy tea, it had worked.

Well, either that or exhaustion from all-natural sleep deprivation had finally kicked in.

Buffy shuffled into the kitchen at what should have been lunchtime to find Dawn halfway through a bowl of cereal with marshmallows, drowned in what looked suspiciously like chocolate milk.

“That’s gross,” Buffy said. “Aren’t you supposed to be all healthy-eating right now?”

“There’s bran in there,” Dawn said defensively.

“Where?”

“Somewhere.” Dawn shrugged. “I opened the box and everything.”

There was, indeed, an open box of Complete Oat Bran Flakes sitting on the breakfast bar.

Right next to the half-empty bag of mini-marshmallows.

“Right,” Buffy said. She watched Dawn for a few seconds, not sure how to react. She’d done the good-guardian thing –  _not a parent, not a parent,_  definitely  _not a parent_  – and thrown out the Froot Loops Marshmallow and bought the oaty-health-bran of doom. How was she supposed to deal with Dawn subverting breakfast?

Dawn slumped into her chair. She truly hadn’t dodged her breakfast of champions as some kind of lame-ass boundary testing or “to get attention”. She just … really liked marshmallows.

But that didn’t make it any less disappointing when Buffy barely reacted. Didn’t she care about her at all? Dawn pushed away her bowl, suddenly no longer hungry. “Where’s Spike?” she asked.

Buffy shrugged. “Sleeping the sleep of the unconscious?”

“What did you do to him?” Dawn asked accusingly.

“Took off his boots and put a blanket over him,” Buffy said sharply.

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Blonde much? What’d you do to make him  _unconscious_!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Buffy said defensively. “Ninjas stuck a pointy poison-y thing in him.”

“Poison-y like when Faith shot Angel and  _Everyone. Nearly. Died_?” Dawn’s voice had gone supersonically shrill.

Buffy winced. “He’s fine,” she said firmly.  _I think…._  “Just … sleepier than usual. And probably cursing that stupid spring in the middle of the sofa.”

Dawn went absolutely still. In a very quiet, very serious voice, she asked, “So Spike’s not in your room?”

“Spike does  _not_  sleep in my room!” Buffy snapped.

Dawn gave Buffy The Look.

It was very, very unsettling seeing  _his_  look on  _her_  face.

“He’s not in my room,” Buffy said stiffly.

“But the ninjas are all out of commission now, right?” Dawn’s voice was tense.

“No,” Buffy said slowly. “I opted for sleep instead of slayage last night.”

Dawn looked like she was about to explode.

Buffy really couldn’t understand what her problem was. “They can’t get in the house, Dawnie.”

“He isn’t  _in_  the house, you moron! You need to go find him before he gets his stupid self dusted!”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Jonathan pulled out his inhaler and took a puff.

Again.

Warren still hadn’t noticed.

The whole cigar-lit-with-money thing had been great. Once. As a celebration.

But  _every day_?

 _Everyone knows geeks don’t smoke. That’s for … bad boys … and … and_  losers _._

Warren started coughing – his latest attempt to try to blow a smoke ring having resulted in a bit too much inhaling.

Andrew and Jonathan snickered.

Warren straightened up, clearing his throat a few times. “When’s the last time either of you actually saw the Slayer?”

Jonathan frowned, thinking.

“She didn’t even try to stop our bank robbery,” Warren mused.

“It’s unlike her,” Andrew said. “She’s usually so … on top of things.” His head was suddenly filled with a vision of Buffy in leather – or maybe PVC? No, definitely leather. With studs … and a whip.  _Mmmmm ... Slayer on top._

Warren snapped his fingers in front of his face until Andrew’s eyes refocused. “Stop drooling,” Warren said snidely.

Andrew’s ears turned bright pink with embarrassment. “I haven’t actually seen her since she graduated,” he said quickly. “Except in my dreams.”

Warren and Jonathan shared an eye-roll.

“I think I saw her last winter sometime?” Jonathan said. “I was gathering aconite at the full moon, and she was … killing something.”

“I watched – er,  _saw_  her – briefly. In the spring,” Warren said. His eyes gleamed. “Just  _before_  last year’s apocalypse.”

“There was an apocalypse last year?” Jonathan said, frowning. “When?”

“Duh!” Andrew said. “It’s  _Sunnydale_. There’s  _always_  an apocalypse.”

“Well, did you see it?” Jonathan asked, giving him a shove.

“No,” Andrew whined, shoving back. “But at least  _I_  knew there  _was_  one.”

Warren stepped between them to end what was rapidly becoming a flailing slap-fest.

“An interdimensional portal opened up, then closed again,” Warren said loudly. “It was No. Big. Deal.”

Andrew peeked out around Warren to stick his tongue out at Jonathan. Jonathan tried to bitch-slap him.

“Oh my god, are you two or twenty?” Warren asked, shoving them apart again.

“I’m  _eighteen_ ,” Andrew muttered, hurt. “ _Tucker’s_  twenty.”

“I’m trying to be nefarious here!” Warren glowered.

“Nefare, nefare! We’re listening!” Andrew said, suddenly attentive.

Jonathan rolled his eyes – and gave Andrew one last shove.

“So no one’s actually seen the Slayer since the last apocalypse?” Warren asked.

Jonathan and Andrew looked at each other, then back at Warren, their fight forgotten.

“Ya think maybe there’s a reason for that? Like, oh, I don’t know, a nasty case of death?”

“But,” Andrew said. “The M’Fashnik demon …  _he_  thought she was still around.”

Warren shrugged. “He had reasons.” He turned towards the door to his workshop – the only part of their lair the others weren’t allowed. “Oh, Buffy!” he called. Turning back to his partners in crime, he said. “Completely wrong reasons, as it turns out. But reasons.”

A tiny blonde woman stepped through the door.

Jonathan and Andrew’s jaws dropped.

“Master!” the Buffy-bot said brightly. “How can I service you?”

“W-W-Warren?” Andrew stammered. “What did you  _do_?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy didn’t like that the ninja-or-ninjas hadn’t reappeared. Usually she just had to walk around for a while and the Bads came to her.

But these guys weren’t interested in her. She was completely safe from them.

Thanks to Spike.

Like she needed his protection.

A slow burn of anger was steadily building in her gut.

It had started out as resentment towards Dawn for practically shoving her out the house to “rescue” Spike.

Buffy didn’t understand their closeness. Dawn should know better than to care about a vampire. He was already dead; him being deader could only be a good thing.

He could at least have had the courtesy to say something before he’d left. Written a note.

 _Spike? Courtesy? Are you_  insane _?_

It rankled that she hadn’t found him yet. She wasn’t used to having to try! For almost as long as she’d known him, he’d just been  _there_ , on the edge of her periphery, stalking her, taunting her. It had never been comfortable, but sometime in the last year it had become … comforting.

 _How_  dare  _he leave himself so vulnerable! And after that lecture about not taking unnecessary risks? Stupid hypocrite vampire._

He should be home asleep right now.

The more she thought about what she was doing, the more the anger grew. But it felt …  _good_. Like she was alive again.

It never occurred to Buffy that Spike might be at the Magic Box.

But when she walked by the shop – completely by chance – there he was, sitting on top of the research table and  _laughing_.

Her anger reached inferno proportions.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The Buffy-bot cocked her head to one side, eyes wide and blinking. Her internal scripts were running information over her visual inputs.

“So silky,” Andrew said dreamily, gently stroking his fingers through its –  _her?_  – hair.

“You’re Andrew Tucker,” the bot said. She cocked her head. “You’re good with demons.”

“She knows who I am,” he breathed. “I could be even better with Slayers,” Andrew whispered huskily, with an awkward flutter of invisible blond eyelashes. He shuffled a little closer and awkwardly puffed air into her ear.

The Buffy-bot grinned nastily. “I kill demons.”

Andrew took two giant steps back from her/it.

“She looks so real,” Jonathan murmured.

“I’ve ditched all the vampire’s special programming – except for the advanced combat techniques.” Warren shuddered. “I really don’t want another April. This Buffy only likes fighting.”

Andrew pouted, disappointed. “What’s the point of a sex-bot that doesn’t want sex?”

Warren sighed. “Because, nimrod, emotional programming is unstable. Unpredictable. And because my Buffy is such a strong girl,” he cooed, patting her cheek gently, “we only want her doing exactly what we say.”

“So, just like ‘Often Wrong’ Soong, you’ve learned your lessons from the misery and heartbreak that was April-slash-Lore and have recreated the—” Andrew broke off, looking perplexed. “The ‘beloved son’ concept really doesn’t work in this scenario.”

“I am not ‘Often Wrong’,” Warren said angrily. “Once! I was wrong  _once_!”

“He was the Great Father of the positronic brain,” Andrew said. “It’s a  _compliment_  to share his illustrious nickname.”

“She can’t be Data – she uses contractions.” Jonathan muttered.

“That whole contractions thing was such a stupid plot device,” Andrew scoffed. “Brent Spiner used them all the time!”

“They never said he was incapable,” Warren said. “He just hadn’t ‘mastered their use’.”

Andrew looked like he was about to say more, but Jonathan cut him off. “How did you even get her – it –  _that_  – away from the vampire? He was pretty creepy-possessive.”

Warren was still sure that telling them exactly where he’d sent the M’Fashnik would be a mistake. “Some of those original subroutines were … kinda hard-core. The Slayer’s friends must have taken her away from him. If he wants her back, he’ll go after them, not us.”  _Just like the M’Fashnik._

“So … where  _did_  you find it?” Jonathan asked.

“ _She_  was out by the side of the road a few miles out of town.  _In pieces_.”

“How’d she get there?” Andrew asked.

Warren shrugged. “Maybe the M’Fashnik found her. But who cares?” Warren grabbed onto Jonathan’s shoulders. “You’re missing the big picture!” He let him go, putting his arms around the Buffy-bot’s shoulders, malevolent glee spreading over his face. “The real Slayer is gone, and we have a perfectly loyal, perfectly obedient version right here with us.”

Jonathan felt a brief pang of sadness that Buffy might not be alive anymore. But it would certainly make things easier. If she was already dead, they’d never need to go up against her. They could do whatever they wanted.

“But I want a sex bot!” Andrew whined.

“I am not making Christina Ricci!” Warren bellowed.

Jonathan and Andrew watched him nervously. Warren could be a little scary when he was angry.

“The point, gentlemen,” Warren continued icily, “is this: no one can stop us now. We have a free run at Sunnydale.”

Grins slowly spread over the other boys’ faces.

Andrew was even inspired to try out maniacal laugh number seventeen.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya winced as another crash came from the training room.

 _There is no stock there_ , she chanted in her head. _This can only cost me sales._

A man she’d long suspected of being a Brachen demon weakly returned her reassuring smile.

He was looking even twitchier than usual.

Anya started mentally calculating the cost of soundproofing the training room.

She was tired of Buffy frightening away her customers.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“I don’ need rescuin’,” Spike said sullenly. “All safe an’ sound here!”

Buffy snorted. “You get that chip removed sometime today? Or maybe you’ve found another magic ring to keep you safe from Mr Sun?”

Spike took in a deep breath through his miraculously still-unbroken nose. Something smelled … familiar, if he could only put his finger on it. “I thought you’d appreciate some peace an’ quiet. A bit of space!”

“Dawn thought you might be dead. She was distraught.”

“Only Dawn?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

She broke his nose that time.

“She could’ve rung me!” Spike shouted, moving out of range of her fists.

Buffy pulled his cell out of her pocket and waved it. “With this?” she sneered.

Spike grimaced. “Sorry?”

She hurled the phone at his head.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya straightened her shoulders, flicked her hair back, and beamed her most reassuring customer service smile towards her last two customers.

There was another crash.

Anya sighed.

The probably-a-Brachen-demon finally lost his nerve, dropping his mostly-full shopping basket and making a run for the door. He paused briefly in the doorway to give Anya a pitying look.

He probably thought she was going to die.  _Idiot._

Anya began putting away the items from the abandoned basket.  _So unfair._  That guy was usually good for at least a couple hundred dollars every time he came in.

Anya smiled brightly at her last remaining customer – an elderly lady pawing through the sex charms. “If you’ve got any kind of blood pressure problems, avoid those feathery blue ones,” Anya advised brightly.

The old woman gave Anya an arch look and jerked her head towards the back room. “Newlyweds?” she asked.

Anya snorted. “Hardly.”

Buffy slammed the training room door open and stomped across the shop floor. When she reached the exit, she spun around and stared back at Spike, leaning against the doorframe. “If you leave here before dark, so help me, I will stake you myself!”

Spike finally realised what the smell was. “Did you use my shampoo?” he asked incredulously.

Buffy’s jaw dropped and a faint pink flush tinged her cheeks. “Your – the  _Redken_?”

He nodded, a full-of-canary grin spreading across his face.

Buffy fled.

“You could sell tickets for this,” the old lady whispered to Anya.

“I really could,” Anya whispered back.

Spike flipped them the bird then spun on his heel and slammed the training room door behind him.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya had given up on attracting any more customers for the day. But just as she was starting to properly get into her financial projections, the bell above the door jangled, and she looked up to see the very last person she’d expected.

_Bohdan._

He was wearing a suit now, but it sat oddly on his frame, making him look even more like a soldier than his more utilitarian clothing had.

“Spike!” she called, her eyes locked with Bohdan’s.

Spike abandoned his all-out attack on the punching bag and came back into the main room.

“Still alive, then,” Bohdan said gravely.

Spike smirked. “Haven’t been alive for over a century, mate.”

“You’ve seen the new assassin?” Bohdan asked.

Spike absently rubbed at the hole in his shoulder. “Felt him.”

“You take stupid risks.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “You here to nag me?”

Bohdan sighed. “No. To warn you.” He jerked his head towards the door. “He’s out there now. Waiting.”

“Why do you care?” Anya asked.

Bohdan sighed. “I have been wondering when someone would ask me that.”

“And?” Spike asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“There are things I kept back, before.”

“I  _knew_  it!” Anya said. Her exultation faded when she began to consider what he might have held back. “It’s not another hell god, is it?”

Bohdan’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “No. I am unaware of any specific enemies.”

“But there’s a whole parcel of  _un_ specific ones waiting in the wings?” Spike said. He rubbed a hand across his face. “Why tell only us two, an’ why now?”

Bohdan cocked his head very slightly towards Spike. “If you had returned my calls….”

“Right, all  _my_  fault,” Spike snorted. “Story of my bloody life.”

“The Slayer is equally at fault,” Bohdan said, eyes twinkling. “But I leave Sunnydale tonight – there is no more time. I must complete the job I came here to do.”

“An’ just what is that, exactly?” Spike asked, his posture changing from relaxed to menacing.

“The most important part is now complete: I am … assured … that the Key is sufficiently well-protected.”

“Dawn. Her name is  _Dawn_ ,” Spike said.

Bohdan shrugged an apology. “As for the other … the Key was never supposed to be in human form. Michal … gambled that the Slayer would be able to stop the Beast. But now?  _Dawn_  cannot be kept locked in a magical box, or shuffled through dimensions. I am certain that, in time, others will sense her power, try to harness it for themselves.”

“I thought Dawn’s Key-ness could only be used for the one lock,” Anya said.

Bohdan gave her a disbelieving look.

“What?” Anya shrugged. “There’s an entire dimension made of shrimp!”

“You sayin’ Dawn’s gonna spend her whole life runnin’?” Spike asked.

Bohdan spread his hands helplessly. “We are operating beyond prophecy, beyond what is known. It is impossible to predict how it will play out. Perhaps nothing will ever happen.”

Spike snorted his disbelief. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, “What do you think this Michal did, then?”

“I believe he set certain things in motion before he died – ways to keep the Key safe. One of them was ensuring my involvement.” His normally impassive face took on an almost haunted look. “I have dreamt things … things I could not possibly know.” He took control of himself. “I do not know the extent or the purpose of all that Michal did. But he is still an actor in our little drama, despite his death.” Bohdan paused. “Has it not occurred to you that it was far too easy to escape Jenoff’s casino?”

“ _Easy_? You out of your soddin’ mind?”

“Perhaps not  _easy_  exactly, but … too much a miracle. And were you not shocked that no one even  _tried_  to kill me?”

“Figured they didn’ know you were helpin’,” Spike said.

“They should have worked it out by the time we got upstairs. I, too, believed it to be genuine at the time. But now … now I am not so sure.”

“Why would anyone put you in that position?” Anya asked. “You both could have died.”

Bohdan gave Spike a long, careful look. “You trust me now, don’t you?”

Spike nodded slowly.

“And I trust you.”

“Ingenious,” Anya said appreciatively.

“More like completely barmy.” Spike groaned “I  _hate_  this! What the bloody hell’s wrong with bein’ direct?”

“It’s obvious, crude, and generally easier to oppose,” Anya said.

Bohdan’s lips twitched.

“Was bein’ sarcastic, pet,” Spike said through clenched teeth.

Anya glared at him.

“If it was not Michal who set this up, it will have been someone trying to isolate the Key.”

“How’re you at tracing emails?” Spike asked.

“I know only enough to cover my own tracks.”

“I have an idea,” Anya said. She grinned at Spike. “But you’re going to hate it.”

He recognised the smile: it was the one she had when she was about to screw someone out of all the profits.

“No,” Spike said, horror-struck. “We are not calling  _him_.”

Anya’s grin grew wider. “You got a better idea?”


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Change is..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: **Chapter 1** of **Double or Nothing** precedes this chapter chronologically. If you are reading both stories, read that first!

Buffy was standing outside the training room door round the back of the Magic Box. She knew she should just go in, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to put the key in the lock. The anger that had threatened to overwhelm her that afternoon had passed, but it had left a biting unease in its wake.

Spike just ... he made  _no sense_.

This morning, Buffy had been sure he was dead and she’d never been so angry at anyone ever in her entire life. No one. She knew part of that was in response to him being mad at her last night –  _‘cause really, double standards much?_  But part of it was … it was definitely  _worry_.

_How did that even happen?_

It’s not like she loved him or anything. Because that way lay badness to the point of world-endage. Spike was just really easy to be around right now, that’s all. Relaxing. Un-demanding.

And although she accepted that he loved her … a soul-free, still-kinda-evil-in-a-totally-lame-way vampire in love with a Slayer?  _It’s like those psycho women who want to marry serial killers!_

_Except for the part where I’m the serial killer…._

_Never mind._

And it’s not even like Spike was that attractive! He looked like a bobblehead doll. And he was so  _short_.

_I was actually looking him in the eye when we—_

Buffy bit down hard on her lip.

_Let’s really not go there again. It was a spell. It’s in the past._

He was disturbingly un-masculine. He had more hair products than anyone else in the house – possibly combined.  _I mean, god, vain much? He has, like, three inches of hair. Tops. Covered in gel! Who needs to a ‘hair masque’ to ward off_  brassiness  _with hair like that?_

And then there was the makeup _._  Real, honest-to-god-makeup in a little leather zip-up bag. Okay, so she didn’t remember ever actually seeing him wear any … but guys were  _not_  supposed to even own makeup.  _Especially_  ones who couldn’t use mirrors! Cologne was acceptable, maybe – although, weirdly, that seemed to be the one thing Spike  _didn’t_  have – and, like, a single hair product.

_The guy is not supposed to be the pretty one._

_I absolutely did not just think that._

Then the training room door slammed open, revealing Spike in the doorway, just beyond the reach of the late afternoon sunlight.

Buffy felt a totally unexpected – and deeply unwelcome – pang of guilt when she saw the state of his face. Being confronted by bruises she’d inflicted was new and unsettling.

Then his eyes were flashing and his chest was heaving and she could see the flex and pull of every single muscle through his too-tight shirt and her tongue was remembering far too well exactly how his skin tasted.

She licked her lips.

And nearly missed the fury radiating from him in waves.

 _Wait – Spike was_  angry _?_

He’d been cheerful – smug, even – when she’d left the Magic Box that afternoon. And now he was  _angry_? How very dare he? It couldn’t be because she’d hit him. She’d been doing that for years. It felt like … like  _cheating_  – changing the rules, even – for him to get mad about it.

“Would it have killed you to watch telly with her for a couple hours?” he snapped.

_Huh?_

“She wasn’t asking you to talk. Wasn’t even asking you to listen. All you had to do was sit in the fuckin’ room with her!”

_Oh._

Buffy’s insides twisted, but she tried not to let it show. “She … Dawn called you?”

Spike gave her The Look – not deigning to answer.

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Buffy wanted to yell at him, accuse him of … of something really bad. But what?  _He comforted my—_

_He comforted Dawn when she was scared, and he did it because I didn’t. I couldn’t. I’m a terrible—_

_Guardian. I am a terrible guardian._

Spike must have seen something in her eyes because he seemed to suddenly deflate, slumping back against the doorframe. He scrubbed one hand over his banged-up face. “She saw your hands and thought some nasty’d tried to kill you.”

Buffy felt her all-too-obvious inadequacy cut that little bit deeper. Of course signs of a fight would make Dawn panic.  _I should have noticed she was upset; I should have_  known _._  Hating herself even more when she heard the whine in her voice, she said, “If she’d just said something, I would’ve—”

Spike snorted, muscles tensing up again. “You would’ve what? Told her the truth? When have you ever done that?” He watched Buffy half-collapse against the wall of the alleyway, curling into herself. He softened his voice slightly. “You need to tell her.”

Buffy went rigid; she stopped breathing and her heart rate skyrocketed. “Tell her what?”

He kept his face expressionless, his voice toneless. “Where you were.”

“I won’t put that burden on her.”

“Christ!” Spike shouted. “You are some piece of work, you know that?” His careful neutrality had slipped, revealing cold, flinty eyes – and an expression that hadn’t been pointed Buffy’s way for a very long time. “Won’t  _burden_  her with the truth, but you’ll let her keep thinkin’ you hate her?”

Buffy’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

“Every time you pull back, she thinks it’s because you blame her for your ‘horrendous torture’. You remember that, right? Happened when you were in hell!”

“She can’t think it’s her fault – I  _told_  her. I  _told_  her it was my choice, that I was okay.”

“Sweetheart,” Spike said, mocking and bitter, “whatever you said is irrelevant. ‘S what you’re doin’ now,  _today_ , that matters.”

“I—” Buffy’s voice cracked. She looked lost.

Desperation supplanted the anger in Spike’s voice. “I could tell her, if you—”

“Don’t you  _dare_!”

Spike wanted to shake her. How could she not get this? “This sort of secret never keeps. Someone’s gonna work it out eventually.”

“You promised me!” Buffy hissed.

“What if she finds out on her own? Again? You want her to go through that?”

Buffy looked up at him, eyes anguished. “Stop doing this to me! You promised you wouldn’t push! You promised.”

“Not every soddin’ thing is about you!”

Buffy reeled back. He’d said it so  _casually_.

And it was so obviously true. Spike’s orbit – the one that had once circled around Buffy and Buffy alone – had now expanded to include Dawn.

It rocked Buffy’s foundations.

In a fit of desperation she couldn’t understand or control, she grabbed onto him with both hands and she kissed him.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow felt so much surer after talking to Angel. He wasn’t like the rest of them, who seemed to think she was still that weak, defenceless girl she’d been back in high school.

She’d coordinated a fight against a god. She’d rescued Buffy from hell. She was a strong, powerful woman now.

She’d led the Scoobies for so many months – even had the plaque to prove it! With sparkles! And she’d done it without Buffy, without Giles. But as soon as they came back, she was straight back to being the sidekick. The one who helped with research and was smilingly supportive of whatever bullcrap she was told to support.

Couldn’t they see how she’d changed?

But Angel  _got it_. He’d expected her opinion to be the deciding one. And he’d been so grateful and appreciative for Buffy’s rescue. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t exactly said anything directly. But it was Angel! He practically invented tall, dark and mysterious. Maybe literally as well as figuratively, given how old he was.

Getting the validation she’d craved was like balm to Willow’s soul.

And she wanted to return the favour.

So as soon as she hung up the phone, she’d started rifling through her moving boxes. Somewhere in there was her cache of backup disks. And somewhere in  _there_  was Miss Calendar’s floppy – the one with her research on vampires and souls.

The original re-ensouling curse, Willow knew by heart. It was the first spell she’d ever done and she could still feel the words resonating inside her if she concentrated hard enough.

But Miss Calendar had gone further than that. And although Willow had never read all the files – she’d been majorly time-crunching last time – she was sure there had been a file with ideas on how to remove the no-happy clause.

When Willow finally found the backup disks, she pulled out her laptop and put in Miss Calendar’s disk.

_I have the power to do something good and important. For Buffy. And Angel. For the world, even! ‘Cause guaranteed no-more-Angelus? If it’s possible, it’d be like … like a public service. Civic duty, even!_

_And maybe it’ll prove to Buffy that I’m not too dangerous to be around Dawn anymore._

Willow smiled to herself.

_This is gonna make everything better._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The second Buffy’s lips touched his, Spike’s brain shut down.

It was only when one of her roving, grasping fingers accidentally dug into the hole in his shoulder that he formed his first, all-too-brief, reacquaintance with coherent thought.

“Buffy?” he said, pulling away from her burning lips, wanting reassurance that this was real and not some dream. His entire body was screaming,  _Yes! Please! More!_  so loudly his ears were ringing. He could feel her heat, smell her arousal, and it took absolutely everything he had not to just tear off her clothes and drive into her. Drive  _home_.

But there was something … she’d done something … had he been angry?

Then a still-slightly-jagged fingernail scraped across his jugular and he gave up trying to think.

The next time Buffy came up for air, one of her hands was under his shirt and his back was against a wall and the door was shut.

He had no memory of moving.

Buffy’s other had curled around his neck, fingertips still brushing against his throat in a way she had to know damned well would reduce him to a gibbering idiot.

She looked at him – smug, certain, licking her lips like they were covered in cream.

He didn’t much like that look. It had everything to do with power and nothing to do with love.

Still smiling, she recaptured his mouth, devouring him, making him hers – as if he had ever been anything else.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The Magic Box phone was ringing. Anya reluctantly took her ear away from the training room door.

She’d so wanted to use a glass – it was the eavesdropping tool of choice in the movies, after all – but all the dishes were in the back office, and she’d been afraid she’d miss something if she went looking for one.

 _Still,_  Anya thought smugly,  _I heard the most important part: I was right and Willow was wrong_.  _Thank goodness neither one of them seems to have grasped the concept of  “inside voice”!_

She grabbed up the phone on the seventh ring – slightly surprised whoever was calling had waited that long. “Good afternoon, Magic Box,” she said, a trifle breathlessly. “Premiere supplier of all your magical needs.”

_“Is that Anya?”_

“Yes. Who is this?”

_“Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. We met several years ago. Er, when you came to tell Buffy about the Ascension?”_

“Oh! You’re the useless Watcher!”

Wesley made a vaguely affirmative grunt.  _Giles and his ‘please help them with research after I’m gone but best not endanger anyone by trying to offer physical aid’._  Wesley wondered why it was that his erstwhile colleague had taught them to adhere so strictly to the Council dogma of ignoring or denying change. He’d always believed Giles prioritised what worked. Wesley sighed.  _Bet you lot wouldn’t recognise a shade of grey ‘til it bit your bloody arse off._

“Did you want magical supplies?” Anya asked finally, puzzled by the long silence.

 _“No, no,”_  he said hurriedly. _“Nothing like that. I … I run Angel Investigations now.”_

Anya was dumbfounded. “But … but you’re … I thought – you got knocked unconscious more often than Giles!” Anya blurted. “And that’s saying something. Why would anyone ever accept orders from  _you_?”

Wesley seriously considered banging his head against the desk.  _“I thought Willow and Cordelia still talked!”_

“Well,  _yes_ , but … oh! Is it some scam to get you to do all the boring leadership tasks? Like expense accounts and tax returns? I thought for a while that that was why Giles asked me to be a partner in the Magic Box, but then I realised it was only because he was too depressed to care so it was all okay.”

Wesley was momentarily struck dumb.

“Are you still there?” Anya asked, after several seconds of silence. “You haven’t told me why you called yet. I don’t see how it can be to catch up on old times, since we only met the once, and I doubt you care any more about me and my life than I do about you and yours.”

Wesley could suddenly see why Angel thought conversations between Anya and Cordelia were so amusing.

“Can you hear me? Hello?”

Then Wesley could hear what sounded suspiciously like Anya banging the receiver against something hard.

 _“Yes!”_  He shouted. The banging stopped.  _“Sorry. Um. Look, I realise that when you spoke to Angel – and, er, Cordelia – earlier, there was a certain….”_

“Flat-out refusal?”

_“Yes. Quite. However, on reflection, we felt that your concerns merited further investigation.”_

“So the answer is ‘yes’ now?” Anya asked hesitantly.

 _“Mmmm,”_  he said carefully. There was a short pause.  _“Conditional upon sufficient payment, of course.”_

Anya’s eyes lit up. She loved the haggling part.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike buried his nose in Buffy’s hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. It was almost enough to fool himself into feeling that some part of her belonged to him. Even if it was really just one more thing that now belonged to her. “What is this, Love?” he asked thickly.

“Um … kissing?” she mumbled into his throat, suddenly frozen rigid with embarrassment.  _What the hell is wrong with me?_ Not long ago, Buffy had caught herself thinking – smugly – that she’d made him stop thinking about Dawn.  _Is that what this is? Is this who I am?_

Spike could hear her heartbeat gaining speed. Not in the good way. He wanted to wind his fingers through her hair at the nape of her neck in that way he now knew she found comforting, but was afraid she was gearing up to run again and he didn’t dare give her an excuse. He let his arms fall away from her. His voice dropped to a whisper: “Buffy?”

Of course Anya chose that moment to burst into the room.

“Angel’s decided to help!” she called out gaily. She stopped cold in the doorway. “You’re not naked?” she asked, definitely surprised and quite possibly disappointed. “I was so sure you’d be naked.”

Buffy jerked away, her face mimicking a fire engine. “Why would we be naked?” she snapped.

Anya gave her a withering look. “It makes sex less awkward and prone to accidents,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly stupid child.

Spike couldn’t help it – he started giggling.

Anya thought she detected a hint of hysteria. She was suddenly deeply annoyed at Wesley for forcing her to miss what had clearly been an Important Development.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

They’d left the Magic Box through the basement sewer entrance – one neither Buffy nor Spike had noticed until Anya pointed it out – and were maybe halfway home.

It was dark; it smelled awful; and Buffy was already wishing she’d let Spike talk her into going home aboveground and meeting him there. Then she stepped in something oozing and thick that ran over the tops of her sneakers and filled them up. She groaned. “You totally owe me new shoes.”

“Wasn’ me chose to wear the stupid things,” Spike’s voice ghosted back from where he was walking a few feet ahead.

She couldn’t even see him – just a vague slightly-less-dark patch she assumed was his head.

“This is disgusting,” Buffy whined.

“Didn’ have to come,” Spike said, his disembodied voice now echoing slightly.

Neither of them were entirely comfortable with her adamant refusal to let him go home unaccompanied.

Buffy sighed. “Do we really need to revisit last night’s unconscious lump that was you?”

Spike grunted.

They kept walking. Buffy was squelching obscenely with every step.

“You need army boots,” Spike said finally.

“I have a pair,” Buffy replied. She could practically hear Spike’s eyebrow go up.

“Since when?”

“Since forever. But they’re useless for slaying: I can’t pass for helpless in them.”

It had never before occurred to Spike that “practicality” and “clothing” could ever occupy the same space in Buffy’s mind. But the notion that she’d worn two-inch skirts and four-inch heels as some sort of vamp-attracting uniform? It was pure fantasy come true. “You still have those light brown boots – knee-highs? Soft leather, bonkers heels?”

“You don’t have a foot fetish, do you?” Buffy asked guardedly.

“Why? Do you?”

“Of course not!” Even over the stink of the sewer he could smell the blood rushing to her cheeks.

“Got some very memorable views associated with those boots,” he continued thoughtfully.

“Of what, imminent death by pointy heel?”

“Not of the boots, pet.”

Buffy frowned, confused.

He grinned. “Just when  _did_  you stop shavin’ your—”

A mortified squeak escaped before she could stop it.

Spike laughed.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Outside the front door, Spike grabbed her hand before she could put the key in the lock.

“You gonna tell Dawn?”

Tears pricked at Buffy’s eyes. She stared down at her ruined shoes. “All I ever wanted was for her to have a normal life.”

Spike dropped her hand like it burned. “You blind from self-pity or somethin’? That ‘normal life’ bollocks was never her perversion.”

“Wanting to be normal is not perverted!”

“‘S certainly perverse.” He pursed his lips. “Thought you’d decided to accept you weren’t gonna live that lie – so sorry, that  _life_.”

Buffy scrubbed at her eyes. “I did. I am.”

“The Bit lives in your world, Slayer. Don’t make her weak by pretendin’ she doesn’t.”

“I am not making her weak! I’m keeping her safe.”

“She deserves better.”

“Like what, dying at seventeen? And again at twenty?”

“It was always your choice!” Spike practically shouted. He paused. “You may not have chosen to be the Slayer, but you chose to embrace it. You have  _never_  chosen to be safe. You ever ask her what sort of life she wants?”

Buffy slowly shook her head no.

“She wants to be like you. Wear a white hat and charge in to save to day. Idiot.”

Their eyes met.

Buffy looked away first. “Better than wanting to be like you,” she said.

Spike scowled. “Tha’s right. Put me in my place.” He looked up at the house. He still didn’t really believe he mostly sort-of lived there. “Wherever the fuck that is.”

Buffy shifted uncomfortably. “Some parts of you are okay, I guess.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it – she’d practically begged him to make some sort of crude innuendo.

Instead, he turned back to her, eyes seemingly wider and bluer than before. “Yeah?” Despite the gruffness, there was a naked vulnerability to his voice that she’d never have thought possible.

Then again, she didn’t think she’d ever paid him a compliment before. “Yeah,” she said.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Buffy and Xander consider oblivion, while Anya considers her conscience_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: **Chapter 2** of **Double or Nothing** precedes this chapter chronologically. If you are reading both stories, read that first!

Dawn followed Spike out to the back porch. She felt embarrassed and stupid in the aftermath of too many hours of being scared and worried, but she still wasn’t willing to let him out of her sight.

She dropped an ice pack down next to him and folded her arms across her chest. “You know you look like shit, right?” she asked.

His lips twitched into a half-smile but he didn’t reply – just took a deep drag on his cigarette and kept staring off into the middle distance.

“Stop pretending it doesn’t hurt and use the damn thing.”

“Alright, bossy,” he said, picking up the pack and pressing it against his face.

Dawn dropped down beside him in a tangle of long limbs. “Shouldn’t you be inside hiding or something?”

Spike’s smile widened. “Give my right nut for a good fight right now.”

“Ew,” Dawn said, giving him a shove.

He laughed.

Dawn stared down at her feet, suddenly serious. “You promised me you wouldn’t leave,” she said, her voice trembling a little. “You  _promised_.”

He crushed out his cigarette then reached out and took hold of her hand. “See me going anywhere?”

“You scared me.”

“S’posed to,” he said, bumping his shoulder against hers. “Evil, remember?”

Dawn snorted. “I’m being serious, moron.”

He sighed. “I know.”

She gripped his hand harder and laid her head down on his shoulder, letting herself unclench a little.

“You left this morning ‘cause of Buffy, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Been through this, pet. Left ‘cause I was out of cash and smokes and I really did think I had my phone on me.”

“You weren’t there when I woke up. You’re  _always_  there when I wake up.”

“Not everything is about Buffy, alright?”

Dawn straightened up to give him a full-strength look of disbelief. “Yeah, right.” She pointed at him. “Her fists. Your face. All abut Buffy.”

Spike opened his mouth then abruptly closed it again. He had no idea how to say ‘proves she cares and I’m quite chuffed, really’ in a way that didn’t make him sound like a lovesick arse who got off on pain and had delusions of his own importance.

Suddenly anxious, Dawn continued: “Buffy wasn’t … she wasn’t like she was in the basement, was she? All freaky and über-violent?”

“No!” Spike said. He frowned. “You need to stop noticin’ so much.” He hugged her against him.

“At least she didn’t break your ribs.” Dawn muttered, relaxing back against him.

He’d put down the ice pack to light a second cigarette when she asked, “Nothing’s changed between you and Buffy, has it?”

He pulled away just enough to meet her eyes, warily. “Why?”

Dawn pursed her lips. “‘Cause hitting only means ‘I like you’ with the under ten crowd, and I’m not sure you get that.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“How do you still love someone who hits you?”

“ _You_  don’t,” Spike said sharply, dropping both cigarette and ice pack to grab hold of her chin. “Not ever.”

Dawn jerked away angrily. “But it’s fine for you?”

He sighed. It all made perfect sense in his head, but trying to explain it to Dawn? And without revealing any of Buffy’s secrets? “I can take it,” he said finally.

“Can Buffy?”

Spike dropped his head into his hands. “I could never hurt her! You know that.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Dawn snapped. “What if you kill each other? Then I won’t have anyone.”

Spike took care of the people he loved – had done his whole life. But he’d always been a one-woman man. It was easy giving up what  _he_  wanted – he was used to it. But Dawn needed Buffy. And Buffy needed not to be needed. And he had no idea how to make any of it better.

Head still in his hands, he looked over at Dawn. “You eaten today?”

Dawn looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Uh, yeah, cereal.”

“Nothin’ but marshmallows, then.” He rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Let’s go make dinner, hey?”

“You can’t just distract me from this.”

“Watch me.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya was just locking up the shop when the phone rang.

She seriously considered ignoring it, but there was a pesky voice inside her head saying she ought to go back in and answer, just in case it was someone from LA. While she fervently hoped it was the voice of indigestion – Anya had no desire to grow a conscience – she couldn’t deny that Spike’s death would make a noticeable dent in her income.

And she couldn’t let the money suffer, could she? It was all she had now.

Reluctantly, she went back inside.

Five minutes later, she hung up the phone deciding she disliked Cordelia. Intensely.

But at least Jenoff was dead now. That was something.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Spike and Dawn chopping up vegetables at the counter. He felt as if he’d stepped into an alternate dimension.

While he’d watched Spike make dinner once before, Giles had been unable to fully appreciate the surreality of it without his memory.

“You just gonna watch?” Spike asked finally, not bothering to look up.

“Oh, most assuredly,” Giles said. “I am a Watcher, after all, and this is … this is  _fascinating_.”

Dawn sniggered.

“How did you learn to cook?” Giles asked, before he could stop himself.

“Ate a fair few chefs over the years,” Spike said. “Guess somethin’ rubbed off.”

“Fine,” Giles sighed. “Don’t tell me.”

Spike finished chopping his onion, then started rummaging around in the cupboard under the sink.

_What on earth…._

He snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

“Seriously?” Dawn asked him. “You couldn’t just ask me to do it?”

He took a bulb of garlic out of the fridge. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“No,” Giles said. “Surely….”

Spike turned to him and grinned. “Mmmmm garlic.”

“But doesn’t it—”

“Burns like a bitch. An’ the blisters take bloody ages to go down.”

“You really are completely insane, aren’t you?”

Spike just grinned. Then he started peeling.

Giles watched, rapt. Spike was now leaning back slightly, in a way he hadn’t while chopping onion.

He’d also stopped breathing.

_Could raw garlic burn nasal passages at that distance? Or perhaps it’s just natural avoidance…._

Giles was about to ask more questions, but stopped when he heard the front door opening.

“Hello!” Anya’s voice called from the hallway. “I have news!”

“Are we not locking the door anymore?” Dawn asked. “‘Cause that seems kinda dumb with all the assassins.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander had spent the day at Buffy’s, fixing things. The repairs were pretty much done now, except for the new windows. But that was waiting on child support back-payments.

Somehow, he’d managed to avoid seeing anyone but trades all day.  _Thank God._  He felt raw and at odds with himself. Being useful – fixing things that could be fixed with time and hard work – had made it a little better. But he just couldn’t face talking to any of the inhabitants of Revello Drive. They were all even more miserable than him.

_Well, not so much Giles._

_Or Spike._

But Xander  _really_  didn’t want to talk to either of them. He’d avoid seeing Giles forever if he thought he could get away with it.

_Although tormenting Spike might’ve been fun…._

Now he was home and packing. And it was about as awful as he’d expected it to be.

He looked at the half-empty closet that now only held Anya’s things. He was really going to miss this place.

But nowhere near as much as he was going to miss Anya.

He considered the likelihood of them even running into each other after this. Anya had never liked Buffy or Willow much. And while she could probably be counted on to help save the  _whole_  world, she’d never willingly get involved with the day-to-day stuff.

Would he even see Anya again after tonight?

Now there was a not-so-pleasant thought.

_How could everything have gone so horribly wrong?_

Xander felt … betrayed. Not by anyone in particular, but by circumstances – by the world.

As he thought about it, he realised his sense of betrayal had started back when Buffy jumped from the tower. Doc’s knife had only barely broken Dawn’s skin – Xander had seen it when she came down. A  _band-aid_  could have stopped the bleeding. And if it hadn’t? There was always cauterisation. Or magic, even! Buffy’d had  _choices_. Heroes weren’t supposed to just … give up. Not like that.

He and Willow had promised each other after Jesse died that they were never going to lose another friend like that. But how do you save someone from giving up?

Seeing Buffy alive again had been such a bright and shining moment – maybe even the happiest moment of his entire existence.

Then he’d seen her hands. And her eyes.

It embarrassed him now, how sure he’d been that nothing bad would happen. All summer, he’d just assumed Buffy would come back like she’d never left – maybe even with an extra dose of happy. With Glory gone and Dawn safe, how could she not?

He had been so sure that being the rescuer for once, instead of the rescuee, would feel good – all prideful and manly.

He’d been overconfident – cocky. They all had.

It was beyond wigsome, seeing Buffy so broken. She was supposed to be quippy and stoic in the face of, well,  _everything_  – invincible, even. Buffy was supposed to come back  _better_. Saved. Grateful. Not … not like this.

And yeah, sure, no one could’ve predicted hellions. But Willow should have known about the coffin thing. Xander shivered. Buffy’d already been buried alive once. And she’d told them – him and Willow – how she’d had that nightmare her whole life. They’d made her live through it  _twice_. And that was after God knows how long in a hell dimension.

All he wanted was for everything to be okay again. Every _one_  to be okay again.

Their bedroom had no trace left of him now. And it was still nowhere near tidy.  _Guess I was right all along and Anya really is just as messy as me._

Shame being right didn’t make him feel any better.

Xander wandered into the kitchen and looked longingly at the beers in the fridge. But the road to blessed oblivion was also the road to all the things he most wanted to forget about.

He started putting the beers in a box. Richard would appreciate them, anyway.

More than anything, Xander wished there was something he could do to guarantee a happy ending.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“So how does one get in contact with the Order of Taraka?” Giles asked.

“Phone,” Spike said, shrugging.

Giles gaped at him.

Spike dipped a spoon into the simmering pot of sauce and passed it to Dawn. “Taste.”

She cocked her head, considering. “More oregano. And maybe a little lemon juice?”

“What did you expect?” Anya asked Giles. “Some long and involved ritual in a dead demon language with robes and chanting and ritual vein-slicing with a special jewel-encrusted knife?”

Dawn thought Anya seemed far too excited by her own description.  _Such a freak._

“Not precisely,” Giles said, looking slightly embarrassed. “But a phone call just seems, well, a bit mundane and  _wet_  for such an ancient and evil order.”

“They really are mostly human now,” Anya said. She sighed, feeling a certain sense of ex-demon solidarity. “But even D’Hoffryn was afraid of them a few hundred years ago.”

Spike snorted. “Ah, the old days. When blood was properly warm and wet and the viscera didn’t stick in your teeth.”

Anya glowered. “Explain to me why you haven’t called them yet?”

He grinned. “Too busy makin’ dinner for you ungrateful sods.” He poured dry pasta into a pot of just-boiling water. “Done now.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stated dialling.

The phone call lasted less than five minutes. Judging from Spike’s end of the conversation, the Order of Taraka was both clinical and efficient.

The whole experience reminded Giles of discovering Father Christmas wasn’t real – disappointing with a chaser of betrayal.

_Or like discovering Santa Claus is really a reindeer-riding, child-disembowelling demon from the sixteenth century._

_Yes. Just like that._

Spike was grinning as he put his phone back in his pocket.

“What’re you so happy about?” Dawn asked. “I thought you wanted a fight.”

“Got one,” he said, his grin becoming even wider and more feral. “Friendly neighbourhood ninja’s not human.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy had fled to her room as soon as she’d got in the door.

Then she’d kicked off her ruined shoes and trousers and crawled straight into bed.

She couldn’t stop shaking.

She’d done the stupidest thing she could ever have done in the history of ever by kissing Spike. And she’d had no magical excuses this time.

And instead of pushing her for sex or an explanation – like the vampire she knew and loathed – he’d just gone straight back to telling her how she wasn’t enough for Dawn.

Like it hadn’t affected him at all.

But he’d made Buffy forget. For a few minutes – the first since she’d been back – she hadn’t thought about heaven.

She hadn’t dared hope for that kind of relief. And she would give  _anything_  for just one more minute.

_Just … why did it have to be Spike?_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara’s heavy heart lightened when she realised there was a place setting for her. “Thanks for making enough for all of us,” she said quickly as she dropped her bag in the hallway and slipped into a chair.

Spike looked surprised. “Welcome,” he said gruffly.

Giles looked back and forth between them.

“Spike normally only cooks for me,” Dawn explained.

“Late c-classes,” Tara explained. “W-we’re really lucky Spike helps.”

Spike was staring at Tara as if he’d never seen her before.

“Ah,” Giles said.

The ensuing silence was awkward, but not entirely uncomfortable.

Giles watched Spike’s chewing become steadily slower and more tentative. He was making mental notes of all the effects of ingestion of cooked garlic, but he knew he’d forget details if he left it too long. His fingers ached to get at his diary.

When Spike swallowed, he looked as if he were eating broken glass. But at the same time, he was obviously enjoying it.

Dawn abruptly shoved herself back in her chair and stomped off to the kitchen.

 _Dear God, she could be Buffy five years ago,_  Giles thought with a start.

Buffy did her best to hide a flinch at the noise, but of course Spike noticed it. She glared at him. He smirked back.

As soon as she looked away from him again, the smirk dropped off Spike’s face. She hadn’t taken a single bite of dinner – was just moving things around on her plate. He was worried he’d pushed too hard. He thought she’d seemed better today – there’d been real fire in her eyes this afternoon. But now….

Anya sighed. She was beginning to wish she hadn’t agreed to stay for dinner. The food was okay, but the conversation – what there was of it – was  _so boring_.

_I should go home and pack…._

But for maybe the first time in her life, Anya didn’t want sex, and she had no idea how to communicate with Xander without it. Home was suddenly less attractive.

“Do you have any wine?” Anya asked brightly.

Tara noticed Giles’ sympathetic wince, and wondered what was going on with Anya.

“Sorry, pet,” Spike said.

Tara thought he sounded almost … pitying.  _Spike knows, too, whatever it is._

“Bourbon?”

Giles shuddered. How anyone could continue to drink bourbon after even  _tasting_  good scotch was entirely beyond him.

Anya made a face. “I have no desire to get falling-down drunk.” She leaned forward to stare at Spike’s mouth. “Are your gums bleeding?”

“Yes,” Dawn snapped, stomping her way back from the kitchen with a mug. Muttering “Stupid vampire,” under her breath, she slapped it down at Spike’s elbow. A few drops of blood spilled onto the placemat.

“Ta, Bit,” Spike said gratefully. He mopped up the spill with a finger then licked it off before taking a deep draught from the mug.

Buffy found herself unable to tear her eyes away from him. She felt a jerk low inside watching him suck blood off his finger and she hated herself for it.

Spike chewed his next bite of pasta completely normally.

“Fascinating,” Giles murmured.  _It’s like an addiction … or perhaps a form of self-harm? But how could either work without a functioning endocrine system?_  Giles suddenly wondered whether Spike was addicted to nicotine – and if he was, how the withdrawal symptoms functioned.  _Perhaps it’s only the blood-cleansing organs that cease to function after the change? He definitely said he didn’t use his kidneys…._

Suddenly aware that he had been staring for rather longer than was polite, Giles asked, “So, er, have you always eaten?”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “You ever see me eat when I was chained up in your sodding flat?”

Giles frowned. “You certainly went through enough of my Weetabix.”

 _So dull!_  Anya thought. _Who cares about Spike’s weird food fetishes?_ She briefly considered bringing up what she’d overheard between him and Buffy that afternoon, but decided she’d wait until Dawn was elsewhere – she had a tendency to shriek when she was upset and it always made Anya’s ears ache. Anya still couldn’t understand how Spike could stand to spend so much time with the child.

“And the cooking?” Giles pressed.

Spike sighed. “Ever tried to nick a hot meal? Nightmare. Ingredients’re easier.”

Giles shook his head in disbelief. “You’re just not normal.”

Spike scowled. “Been tryin’ to tell you that for  _years_!”

Dawn sniggered.

“Oh!” Anya said. “Buffy, I brought paperwork for you to sign.”

“Huh?”

“Paperwork,” Anya said, slowly and carefully. “You write your name,” she mimed the action, “and then you get a big fat cheque.”

“Money for why?” Buffy asked.

Anya turned to Giles, surprised. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Er, no, I haven’t had the chance,” Giles said.

Anya rolled her eyes. “Just fill in the forms I brought, and you get a little over seven thousand dollars.”

Buffy’s jaw dropped. “Seven  _thousand_?”

Anya thought she saw actual tears of joy in Buffy’s eyes. She couldn’t decide what shocked her more – perfect, stoic Buffy crying for once, or the fact that she actually felt  _good_  about making her happy.

_Maybe this helping thing isn’t a complete and total waste of time after all…._


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Reflections on love and trust and anger and fear, part 1_

Dawn had absolutely not intended to wait up for them. But … sleep had refused to come.

Just as she was beginning to reconsider the merits of a glass of water and maybe something to eat, she heard the snick of the front door. Then muffled clanking as weapons were put away, accompanied by the low rumble of voices. She thought she heard Spike laughing at one point. It was comforting and familiar, hearing those noises. They meant everyone was home safe.

She heard Buffy come up the stairs and go briefly in and out of her room.

Just as the bathroom fan started humming, Dawn heard the stairs creak. She rolled her eyes. Spike thought he was  _so_  stealthy, but he could never remember which stair was the squeaky one. Buffy had mastered that their first week of living here.

She’d thought he might be coming up to check on her – maybe even nag her to go to sleep – but it was Buffy’s door that Dawn heard open and shut a few seconds later. Right  _after_  the shower started.

The calm assurance Dawn had felt only seconds ago was gone. She didn’t want them to be sleeping together. Not tonight. There were supposed to be consequences when you hurt someone. And Spike had been hurt – even if he didn’t know it. Because Buffy didn’t hit the people she cared about. Not ever. Even when they really, really super deserved it. She practically had an anxiety disorder about pleasing people. Dawn knew this, because she’d exploited it for years – in her memory, at least, if not in reality. And beating someone up? Not pleasing.

But stupid Spike with his stupid neediness didn’t see it. He still thought that as long as Buffy was paying attention, it meant she cared. Dawn felt like crying. She’d tried to tell him. She’d really, really tried. But she was so afraid that this was something he  _couldn’t_  understand.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

When Giles left the bathroom after his shower and saw the front door wide open, his first instinct was to panic. He nearly flew down the stairs, mentally preparing himself for the worst … only to be met by Spike’s face peering around the bottom of the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked highly amused.

Giles stopped dead on the last step. He couldn’t decide whether to laugh with relief or start yelling. He was really not enjoying mornings with Spike.

Spike called out, “‘S a cuppa on the side.” Then he twisted away from the doorway, sitting back against the wall on the porch floor. He tugged his blanket tighter around his shoulders, knees pulled in tight to avoid where the sun was creeping past the shade of the awning.

Desperately wishing for the universe to right itself, Giles forced himself to calmly walk into the kitchen. He stared at the steaming mug of tea for a few seconds before picking it up. Manners overriding everything else, Giles went back to the front door. Hovering in the doorway, he said, “Thank you.” He took a certain pride in not sounding overly astonished.

Spike looked up to nod an acknowledgement before switching his cigarette to his right hand and picking up his own mug to take a sip. Giles was at the wrong angle to see into it, but he fervently hoped it contained tea. The notion that Spike might make a cup for him and not himself was … not to be considered.

Giles took a sip of his tea. Disturbingly, it was exactly the way he liked it.  _Maybe just a touch too much milk…._

Spike’s bruises from yesterday had almost completely faded. But one cheek was newly swollen and he was holding himself a bit more stiffly than he had last night. Giles suspected a rib injury. “I take it you had a, er, successful night?”

Spike had no idea how to categorise last night to himself, let alone to Giles. “That ninja i’n’t pining for his native fjords anymore, if that’s what you mean,” he said finally.

“Nor merely all squawked out?” Giles asked, completely deadpan.

Spike grinned. “Ceased to be like a pro. ‘Long with a few other nasties.”

Giles smiled. Perhaps there were some benefits to having Spike around.

When Spike had smoked through to the filter, he pulled a garish plaster ashtray onto his lap, and stubbed out the butt.

Giles stared in revolted awe at the ring of miniature human skulls with green rhinestones for eyes and the slightly sparkly blood painted to flow out of their mouths and into the bowl. “That’s hideous,” he said.

Spike smiled proudly. “Dawn ni— got it for me,” he said – rather relieved when Giles entirely failed to notice the slip. He shrugged. “Never had an ashtray before.”

Giles watched Spike take another sip from his mug. It suddenly struck him, again, quite how surreal it was to be here, at his Slayer’s home, drinking tea in the early morning light with a vampire. “Why?” he asked.

Spike frowned. “Not my choice, believe you me. Witches kept writin’ notes: ‘Leaves scorch marks’, they said.” Spike made a face. “Beyond me why anyone cares. Even  _I’ve_  replaced broken porch slats.” He paused. “Well, watched ‘em get replaced. Same thing, near enough.”

“Not that,” Giles said sharply, leaning against the doorframe. “How you ended up here. Cooking. Making the Hellmouth safe for ... for what ought to be your lunch. It’s – I should think it’s embarrassing for someone of your age and power.”

“Aw shucks, Rupes, you’ll make me blush.”

Giles harrumphed. “Everything I have ever seen or read has taught me that your current behaviour is  _inconceivable_  without a soul.”

Spike snorted. “An’ you’re the expert on vamp metaphysics, are you?”

“You were pure, unadulterated evil!”

Smirking, Spike lit another cigarette.

Giles rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “I’ve no idea where you fit in now.”

Spike laid his head back against the wall and blew out a stream of smoke. He was too tired and sore and most of all too goddamned  _sober_  for this conversation. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it bloody matters! If I’m to trust you….”

Spike’s eyes widened and his cigarette slipped through his fingers. “ _Trust me_?! But you hate me!” Spike jerked and swatted at the cigarette as it started burning through his trousers.

Giles sighed. “Are you quite finished setting yourself on fire?”

Spike glared up at him.

“Hatred and trust are hardly mutually exclusive,” Giles said mildly. “They describe my feelings toward Angel admirably.”

Spike’s lip curled in distaste.

“He may be insufferable, but … predictably so,” Giles said. “I know exactly what to expect from him. But you’re all over the place! You betray every ally – even when it’s against your own interests. You’ve killed two Slayers, and yet  _Joyce_  of all people managed to stop you from killing a third. Unpredictable, inconstant … you make no sense!”

“What’s your point?” Spike snapped.

Giles dropped down to sit on the doorstep. “What if you ‘fall in love’ with someone else tomorrow? Will you offer her Buffy as proof of your devotion? You’ve done it before, and to your sire, no less.”

“Never happen,” Spike said. And it wouldn’t – not like that. But he didn’t have the unshakable faith in his own devotion to Buffy that he’d once had. He didn’t know how much longer he could continue walking the knife-edge between her and Dawn before having to choose, and it left him feeling adrift and unsure of himself.

“I see nothing but pain and uncertainty in your future here,” Giles said, not entirely without sympathy. “At the moment, you are … helpful. I might even go so far as to say necessary. But these are highly unusual circumstances. Eventually, Buffy will stand on her own two feet again. And Dawn will grow up.” Giles’ voice became harder. “They won’t need you anymore.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Seem to remember you crawled into a bottle soon’s Buffy stopped needin’ you.”

“Only after you practically shoved it down my throat!”  _Never mind how often it happened after that._  “Besides, barring accidents and liver failure, alcohol never killed anyone.  _Your_  type of binge drinking is another issue entirely.”

Spike laughed. “I’m chipped, remember? Bit limited in the carnage department these days.” He briefly considered telling Giles that his chip no longer classed Buffy as human and hadn’t for a while now – it would prove his capacity for restraint if nothing else. But he wasn’t sure which direction Giles would jump – it might just push him to pick up a stake. And the chip would certainly still work on Giles.

“You were evil, and now you’re … something else. I want some assurance that you won’t immediately go back to your old ways when you’re forced to accept that Buffy will never love you.”

“I’m not completely delusional! I know she doesn’t love me.”  _Cares, though. A bit. Must do._

“But you have hope that one day she will! You’re … courting her. Performing favours. With the clear expectation of reward.”

Spike looked uncomfortable. “Right now? Just happy she’s alive. Don’ need anything else.”

“That won’t sustain you indefinitely. What happens when she falls in love? With someone else? Buffy can be very … focussed on her relationships.”

Spike scowled. “I love her!”

“Love!” Giles scoffed. “You can’t love without a soul.”

“Bollocks! Here, you ‘member the Judge?”

“How could I ever forget?”

“Mad keen to dust Dru an’ me.”

Giles was thrown. “ _Why?_ ”

“‘Cause we loved each other, you berk!”

Giles snorted in disbelief.

“Only one that hulking great sod approved of was Angelus.  _Pure evil_ , he says.” Spike rolled his eyes. “Had a right job talking’ him out of killin’ the rest of us. Any idea how rare pure evil actually is? Or how much like hard work?”

“Did you have a point somewhere in there?”

“The Judge wanted to stamp out all human emotions! Including mine!”

“You’re the one who awakened him!” Giles spluttered.

Spike shrugged. “Pro’ly should’ve planned that better, thinkin’ ‘bout it now. Dru’s full to burstin’ with emotions. Y’know the Judge killed some tit for  _reading_? Mind you, bloke was bloody annoying. Nearly offed him m’self more than once.”

“Still waiting for the point.”

“Point is, I  _love_. Always have. An’ if even the soddin’ Judge could see it, why the hell can’t you?”

Giles snorted.

“What, you think I’m lyin’?”

Giles sighed. “No. More’s the pity. But whatever the semantics, your feelings for Drusilla did not stop you from attempting to kill her.”

“Proper sacrifice! I’n’t that what you keep banging on about?  _Real_  love being all about sacrifice?”

“I didn’t mean literal blood sacrifice! And murder is hardly an ideal method to prove one’s abandonment of evil.”

“That wasn’t the sacrifice I meant. Dru’s love was the only thing I ever had that was worth a damn. Was givin’ her up, permanent-like. Death was … incidental.” His expression darkened. “Dru understood that.”

Giles just stared at him.

“Dru always wanted me to kill the Slayer for her.” Spike shrugged. “Turnabout’s fair play.”

“I have no idea how to even begin to respond to that.”

“Never claimed I made good choices!” Spike laughed sharply. “Hell, I never claimed to be good!”

“I’m gratified to hear you’re not yet that delusional.” Giles sighed. “Sometimes I think it might be better for all concerned if you were to meet with an … unfortunate accident some night.”

Spike’s head snapped up. “That your idea of not interferin’?”

“I’m not….” Giles ran his fingers across his forehead. “I didn’t mean it that way.” And he didn’t. He actually quite enjoyed Spike’s company. Sometimes. But he didn’t believe that Buffy could ever accept him, and he was terrified of what would happen when Spike finally realised that.

“So you don’t want to murder me, then?”

Giles stared down at his feet. “It’s never been a question of what I want.”

“An’ here I thought I was the evil one.”

Giles looked over at Spike. “I believe we’ve already established that you and I both inhabit the grey.”

Spike took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “‘M goin’ to bed,” he said, standing up abruptly.

Giles stood, too, moving away from the door and into the sunshine. “It’s time I went in to the Magic Box, anyway.”

Spike grinned, although it never reached his eyes. “You just … rein in those homicidal urges a bit longer, yeah?”

“It wouldn’t be homicide,” Giles said quietly as he watched Spike cross over the threshold. “You’re not a man.”

Spike slammed the door behind him.

As Giles turned to leave, he noticed that Spike’s mug was still outside. He walked over to look inside it; it had contained blood.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy twisted in her covers.

_‘Did they tell you that you belonged here?’_

_It was back. That bitch demon was back._

_“Did they say this was your home again?”_

_She could feel her eyelids twitching over her eyes, could feel the weight of them as she tried so hard to open them, to be awake again. But she couldn’t. She could only see the dream and its demon._

_‘Were you offered pretty lies, little girl?’_

_She kicked and punched, but nothing was connecting. It seemed to be Slayer-immune._

_‘Did they even give you a choice?_

_Buffy lunged, thinking maybe it was time to try hair-pulling, but the demon disappeared into smoke, rematerializing just out of reach._

This is a dream. Wake up, Buffy. Wake up!

_Then shovelfuls of earth started slamming into her, knocking her off-balance. Her limbs were getting heavier; soon she wouldn’t be able to move at all._

_Buffy screamed._

_But dirt was pouring into her mouth while the demon’s cackling laughter filled her ears. Everything was closing in on her._

_Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe._

_CAN’T BREATHE!_

And then Spike was there.

Her screams had stayed locked inside her head this time; it was her silence that had brought him. “Breathe, Love. Bloody fuckin’ breathe!” Spike cried, terrified, shaking her, watching her lips turn blue.

He’d been about to start slapping her when her eyes popped open and she finally inhaled. She curled onto her side, drinking in great gulps of air.

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut, revelling in the sensation of seeing nothing but the backs of her eyelids. She could feel the covers being tucked around her, Spike a solid presence at her back.

His hands moved gently over her, smoothing and straightening, anchoring her in reality. He was keeping the area around her face completely clear so the air smelled cold, and for all his closeness, her arms were never constrained. He was even being blissfully silent – practically a miracle for him. She wished he didn’t know so exactly what she needed. Her gulps of air turned to sobs.

“Safe now. Lights’re on. Sun’s up. You’re safe.” Spike lay down behind her and started taking slow, even breaths, his hands stroking over her to the same rhythm. She was twitching and fluttering beneath him like a trapped bird, sobs racking her body.

For a few minutes, she just let go while he held her.

Eventually, her breathing evened out and the shaking mostly subsided. “This isn’t me,” she gasped. “I can’t … I’m not….” Her breath started stuttering again. “Don’t see me like this!” Her words were choking her. The rippling tremors of the dream warring with embarrassment at being caught out so weak and helpless.

“Shut my eyes, shall I?” he said gently. He nuzzled her hair, letting her feel his face against the back of her head, giving her some illusion of privacy.

She hated the tone he was using – she had started thinking of it as his make-nice-to-the-psycho voice. But she hated herself so much more for needing it. “I’m not crazy!” she snapped.

“Course you’re not,” he said. His fingers were still stroking, soothing, in time with his breathing. “You’re perfect.”

A wave of self-loathing washed over her. “How can you think I’m perfect?” she whispered. “I’m falling apart.”  _I’m wrong. Came back all wrong._

“Not perfect like that,” he said, almost laughing. “All manner of flaws in you.”

She twisted around to look at him. “What?!”

He stared into her eyes – deep brown in this light. “You want me to list them?” He trailed his fingers down her arm until he reached her hand. He interlaced his fingers with hers, then tugged at her arm until it was curled against his chest.

“Are you  _trying_  to piss me off?”

He really did laugh this time. “Brings you back to yourself, doesn’t it?” His face became serious. “Whatever you need, Buffy.”

She could feel his breath on her face. It was warmer than she’d expected it to be.

She rolled over, turning her back to him. But she didn’t let go of his arm.

It wasn’t long before they were both asleep.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander was surprised and not a little bit freaked out to see Giles on the other side of his front door.

“Giles!” he gulped. “W-what are you doing here? Who’s in the shop?”

“I closed it. Where’s Anya?”

“Uh, doing a run of stuff to her new place,” Xander said carefully.  _Magic Box closed on a Saturday? This is big with the not-goodness._  “She should be back soon, though.”

“Yes,” Giles said. “Right. Of course. Moving.”

“Yeah,” Xander said. “You, uh, you look kinda upset. You want a cup of tea? I think we have some Lady Grey somewhere. Unless Anya’s packed it already.”

“Er, yes, tea would be good. Yes.”

“What’s up, Giles? You are seriously freaking me out.”

“I just had a phone call from Los Angeles.”

Xander yelped. “Has Angel lost his soul again?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Anya called Angel – hired him, in fact – to investigate—” Giles stopped suddenly, staring at Xander. “Something. Did you know Spike was working with her?”

“Uh, yeah, translation stuff,” Xander said. “Right?”

Giles sighed. “It’s a bit more involved than that.”

Xander moved his head around in a circle. “Aaaand that would be…?”

“Perhaps I’d best wait for Anya.”

Xander looked like he’d just been kicked. Giles faltered. “I didn’t know anything about this until very recently.”

Xander relaxed a little. Just recently, he’d definitely been avoid-o-guy. And big news was always in person.

“The reason Spike was so injured last week—”

Xander felt a brief,  _weird_ , stab of guilt that he’d never asked why Spike had been so much deader than usual. Sure, there had been a lot of things going on that night, but anything big and bad enough to do that much damage to Spike was probably worth paying attention to.

“—is because Wolfram and Hart hired the Magic Box to, well, to destroy a casino.”

Xander did his best impression of a guppy.

“My thoughts exactly,” Giles said drily.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Reflections on love and trust and anger and fear, part 2_

The sound of the front door slamming woke Tara up. It was still early – too early for Saturday morning – but she was so jumpy right now it took very little to rouse her.

Tara felt so precarious living in this house – like she was constantly walking along a high ledge, just about to fall. She was sleeping in the master bedroom that by all rights should be Buffy’s. Or Giles’. Or anyone else’s other than hers. She was sure they were all just patiently waiting for her to leave. The room, at least, if not the house.

She heard footsteps pounding up the stairs: Dawn or Spike.  _Except Dawnie’s never up this early on a weekend…._  Then a door opened and almost-but-not-quite slammed shut.

_Buffy’s room._

Tara squeezed her eyes shut. She hated this. She didn’t want to know their secrets. Not without them choosing to tell her, anyway.

There had been times, last year, when she’d thought she was finally becoming a part of the group in her own right. She’d felt like she was building a new family for herself. But then she’d been brain-sucked.

Even though Willow had been amazing all through the during part – so full of love even though Tara’d had nothing to give her in return – it was clear afterwards that the others’ attitudes towards her had changed. They’d stopped seeing her as  _her_ , Tara, and relegated her to the girlfriend zone again. And Tara knew Willow’s crazy-fierce overprotectiveness was a factor in that. But in the immediate aftermath of Buffy’s death, none of that had bothered Tara overmuch. There had been so many other things going on. And she’d felt so cared for, so safe. She had always assumed that there’d be  _time_. Time for Willow to calm down, and time for her to rebuild the fledgling relationships she’d had before.

But now?  _Not_  following Willow out of the house post-memory-spell had stopped the clock. This group had never coped well with interlopers –  _especially_  significant others. She couldn’t imagine that a definitely-on-a-break-maybe-even-ex-girlfriend would stand a chance. Her best hope with them was getting back together with Willow. But without Willow as part of the package, she wasn’t convinced she even wanted to keep them as friends. Or that she should. They were Willow’s family to all intents and purposes – and Tara had learned in high school that you can’t keep your exes’ families, no matter how much you might want to.

Tara could never regret the last two years of helping in her own small way to save the world. But for her, it had never been about Buffy like it was for Xander and Willow. Tara didn’t need to be here to keep helping.

_Would I miss any of them if we lost touch?_

_Dawn maybe…. I think we would’ve found a connection even if we’d met some other way._

In the end, it all came down to Willow. If Tara wanted to get back together with her, then she needed to stay. And if she didn’t, she needed to go. Maybe even leave Sunnydale.

Tara knew with absolute certainty that she loved Willow; she was her forever person. But Tara didn’t know if it was possible to fix broken trust at this level. Because how could there be love without trust?

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya had yelled at Giles for what felt like five lifetimes about closing on a Saturday in the run-up to Halloween. After that, their conversation had started sort of drifting through Xander’s ears without really registering. Individual words and phrases penetrated – HR idiots; Vegas office wanted Jenoff gone; long-term recruitment of the Magic Box – but really? He had no context for any of it and he might as well have been listening to the grownup trombone in a Peanuts cartoons.

It made Xander feel unbearably young. Doubly so because his brain was still mostly stuck looping around the fact that Anya and Spike had been secretly seeing each other for months. They’d had this whole relationship he’d never even  _suspected_. And yeah, sure, it was a business relationship, but….  _Why didn’t she trust me enough to tell me?_

_Okay. I know exactly why she didn’t._

But that didn’t make it hurt any less. And clearly she’d been talking to Giles a lot, too. They had this whole shorthand going that made their conversation even harder to follow.  _Have they been talking on the phone all this time, too? He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a proper dad, but he’s kept in closer touch with my_  fiancée  _than he has with me._

_Ex-fiancée._

Xander felt sick – and for the first time, actually almost glad he and Anya had already split up.  _This_ , this thing now, was exactly what he’d always worried about most with her – that he was too young for her, too inexperienced. Too stupid! And he’d been right. Clearly, she’d needed other people – other  _men_  – to fill in the gaps.

_Well … Spike isn’t a man, but he’s got the boy-parts, which is the thrust of the – un-think! Un-think! No Spike and thrusting in the same sentence!_

Anya’s memory-free description of Giles suddenly popped into his head – “my very attractive business partner”.

_Oh God! Now I’m thinking of Giles and sex! Where’s the brain bleach when you really need it?_

“Xander?!” Anya said, clearly not for the first time.

“Wha—? Sorry. I kinda got lost in my own head for a minute.”

Giles shot him a disappointed look, making Xander feel even more useless.

“Look, uh, why don’t you guys keep talking. I’ll just keep on with the moving stuff. And then when it’s time for research or action or, you know … lunch … just let me know.”

“Oh,” Anya said, clearly surprised. “Okay. Thank you, Xander.” And then she smiled at him, and it was blinding and genuine and it made the sick feeling even worse.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Hey,” Dawn called out from the kitchen doorway.

Tara jumped guiltily, dropping the textbook she was reading. She gasped out, “Oh, hey, Dawnie,” feeling awkward and even more guilty for feeling guilty in the first place. Tara internally berated herself:  _this is your kitchen, too. At least for the time being._

Dawn brushed past her and pulled down all of the blackout blinds that Tara had just raised.

_Or maybe not so much._

Dawn pulled out her box of bran-of-death and the chocolate milk; unfortunately she’d already eaten all of the mini-marshmallows. Just before she poured the milk into the bowl, she turned away from the counter and gave Tara a quizzical look. “So what’s the deal with you and Willow?”

Tara let out a squeak of nervous laughter. She took a sip of her tea. “You really d-don’t do subtle, do you?”

Dawn shrugged. “I don’t think Summers women  _can_. Denial, on the other hand….”

Tara gave a sympathetic wince. “I haven’t spoken to her since she left the other night.”

Dawn’s eyes widened – she hadn’t really expected Tara to answer her at all, let alone like that. “Not even on the phone?”

Tara shook her head.

Dawn frowned. “How come? I mean … you and Willow are like the poster couple for good conflict resolution.”

Tara laughed again, this time more genuinely. “Only in comparison to the other Scoobies.”

Dawn stopped short, shocked. “Yeah, denying the conflict and skipping over the resolution  _is_  kind of a Scooby thing.”

Tara nodded. “There’s no energy left for fighting at home after they’ve done all the saving-the-world stuff.”

Dawn frowned at her. “‘They?’ Don’t you do it, too?”

Tara looked down at her hands. “I’m still pretty new at all this. And I, um, I mostly missed out on the last apocalypse.”

“Oh,” Dawn said, suddenly ashamed. “Right. Sorry.” She turned back to her breakfast, the silence now awkward and uncomfortable.

Tara stared at the blinds, wishing she felt confident enough to go re-open them.

 Dawn slipped onto a stool and wolfed down her cereal as quickly as possible to avoid having to taste it. When she was finished, she rinsed her bowl in the sink and put it in the dishwasher.

Just as she reached the kitchen door, she turned back to Tara. She looked so sad. “Are you okay?” Dawn asked hesitantly.

Much to her own surprise, Tara suddenly burst into tears. Mr Giles was the only person who’d thought to ask her that in the last week. And even he’d been pretty perfunctory about it.

Dawn was beyond freaked. Tara wasn’t supposed to break down. All through the summer, everyone had had weepy moments – even Spike – but Dawn had never seen Tara cry. Not once. “Do you want a hug?” she asked. “Or, y’know, I could ignore that you’re crying. ‘Cause total expert at denial here.”

Tara stared laughing through her tears. “A hug w-would be nice,” she said.

Dawn went over and put her arms around her. Tara hugged her back.

When Tara had mostly recovered herself, Dawn said, “There’s a Bond movie marathon on this weekend. D’you maybe wanna watch some of it with me?”

Tara gave her a watery smile. “Who could turn down Miss Pussy Galore?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Xander was awkwardly holding up a box while trying to unlock the door to Richard’s house

“Hey, Xander,” Willow said.

Xander dropped the box, but instead of falling and breaking, it paused mid-air, and wafted gently to the ground. He stared down at it. “How’d you know to come here, Will?” He turned around to look at her.

“ _Anya_  told me.” Suddenly looking hurt and confused, Willow asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you guys were having problems?”

Xander sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “I went over to Buffy’s to tell you the other day, but I, uh, I didn’t want to lay any more crap on you.”

Willow frowned, feeling a mixture of gratefulness and guilt.

Xander unlocked the door, then picked up his box. He gestured to Willow to go in, and once she had, he followed her.

They sat down on Richard’s couch.

“Why did she dump you?” Willow asked. Suddenly sounding fierce: “You want me to turn her into a toad?”

Xander let out a yip of nervous laughter. “No toads! And Anya didn’t dump me. It was mutual.”

Willow gave him an arch look. “‘Mutual’ is code for getting dumped.”

“Not in this case.”

“C’mon, tell me what she did. Was it awful?” Willow was giving him that best-buddies grin of hers – the one that always came before such innocent joys as the  _We Hate Cordelia Club_.

“Anya didn’t do anything,” Xander said, quietly but firmly. He took in a deep breath. “I hit her, Will.”

Willow’s face crumpled. “No.” She started shaking her head back and forth. “No, you would never….”

“But I did.”

“She said something, didn’t she? She twisted you up until you had no choice—”

“I had a choice, Will.” Xander’s voice was hoarse. “I have always had a choice.”

“But  _why_? What did she say?”

_Weak boy can’t get it up worm won’t ever turn useless worthless too scared to fight back so stupid not even worth making me sick I dare you I dare you I double dare you to hit me so pathetic can’t even hit a weak defenceless girl scaredy-cat powerless limp-dick pussy bet you’d cry if I even touched you—_

“Nothing.” Xander’s eyes were burning. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“Were you possessed?”

Xander laughed hollowly.  _Not this time. No excuse this time._  “No.”

“But you’re not like that, Xander. You’re not.”

“Yeah, I am,” he said sadly. He grabbed onto Willow’s hand. “It scares me, Willow. What if it happens again? What if it’s worse?”

Willow had tears in her eyes. He envied her. He wished he could cry.

“But your dad….”

“When I did it,” Xander said softly, “I didn’t remember any of that stuff.”

He watched realisation dawn on Willow. “Oh my god, it’s all my fault.” She had come expecting to spend a pleasant afternoon trash-talking Anya and helping Xander move. Not this. Never this. “Xander, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” Xander said. “I get that.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“No more fix-it spells, Will,” Xander said.

Willow looked stricken.

“I think … I think we probably would have split up anyway. Eventually.”

“Well, yeah,” Willow said.  _Duh!_

Xander gave her a sharp look. “I still love her, Will. Don’t think this means I don’t.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“But it didn’t have to end like this. It shouldn’t have.”

Willow hung her head. “I’m so sorry, Xander. I wish I could fix this for you.”

Xander smiled sadly. “I know. But you can’t. No one can.”

Willow nodded uncertainly.

“You do get that, right?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Just how many ‘clients’ do you have in this side business of yours?”

Anya shrugged. “Some? I don’t know! It’s all very casual. We’ve always tried to find things for good customers – you know that. The only difference is that I started paying Spike to source things directly.”

“Carving up demons for parts.”  _Just like the Initiative._

“Mostly, yes!” Anya snapped. “What is your problem, Giles?”

He stared at her. “Fully half of our suppliers are demons now. And your mail order clients are … unsavoury at best. How do you know you’ve not been colluding with Wolfram and Hart for months?”

“So what if I have? The Magic Box is more profitable than it’s ever been. And I don’t sell anything in the kind of pathologically stupid combinations you used to.”

“I never knowingly dealt with demons!”

Anya snorted. “Sobekian bloodstones ring any bells? How about Khul’s amulet?”

Giles’ eyes narrowed. “ _Knowingly_  being the operative word, Anya. You can’t possibly think to have so many dealings with evil without becoming tainted!”

She slumped back against the sofa. “What do you want from me?”

Giles sighed. “Wolfram and Hart are powerful and they are seductive. You’ve changed so much for the good in the time that I’ve known you. I would hate to see you … backslide.”

“I’m human now, Giles. I can never go back to what I was, even if I wanted to.”

“You are vulnerable, Anya. And if Wolfram and Hart have you in their sights….”

“You don’t trust me, do you? That’s what all this is about.” Anya laughed. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

Giles looked at her, heartsick. “I don’t trust  _anyone_  to win against Wolfram and Hart.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

It was nice, hanging out with Dawn. There was a boatload of stuff Tara would never dream of talking to her about – she was still only fifteen and Tara figured she’d already had more than enough of dealing with adult issues. But she was funny and kind and Tara felt no pressure from her. Tara wondered if Dawn felt the same way about her.

“You are so totally hot for Tatiana.”

Tara flushed. “Maybe a little.”

“I think Sean Connery is better-looking now than he was then,” Dawn mused.

Tara giggled. “You know he’s wearing a toupee in every Bond film?”

Dawn gasped, scandalised. “No!”

Tara nodded.

They went back to watching the film.

“Are you gonna move out?” Dawn asked suddenly.

 _So much for a stress-free movie marathon._  Tara sighed. “I don’t know.”

Dawn frowned. “I think you should stay.”

Tara looked over at her, truly surprised. “You really want me to? Even after – well, you know.”

Dawn nodded. “You’re … neutral. I think we need someone neutral around.”

“Oh,” Tara said, swallowing her disappointment. “I guess I can see how that could be good.”

“Plus I’d miss you,” Dawn said, a hint of shyness creeping into her voice.

Tara smiled.  _Maybe they aren’t_  all  _just waiting for me to move out._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy’s first conscious thought was that she felt deliciously warm and safe.

Then she tried to open her eyes and couldn’t.

Somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind, she knew this was because she’d fallen asleep too soon after crying, but the sense-memory of not being able to open her eyes to escape her dream was too recent. Adrenaline flooded her system and the edgy thrum of panic started skittering up and down her spine.

Then she realised her legs and arms were pinned, and she could feel breath against her neck plus a boatload of vampire tinglies.

She started pushing and shoving and jerking against the heavy limbs holding her in place.

Spike semi-consciously lifted his face up from his now-violently-moving pillow in time for Buffy to blindly head-butt him.

“Ow! Fuck!” Spike jerked his chest away from her back and moved straight into the range of her jabbing elbow quickly followed by a flailing foot. He fell off the other side of the bed with a crash.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn winced at the noise from upstairs.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine, Dawnie,” Tara said, sounding anything but sure.

Dawn gave her a withering look.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Finally free, Buffy rolled up into a sitting position against the footboard and rubbed at her eyes until they mostly opened.

“Spike?” she asked, wincing.

“Why’m I on the floor?” he asked, dazed, still lying where he’d fallen.

“Um, my eyes wouldn’t open.”

 He sat up a little unsteadily and blinked owlishly at her over the edge of the bed. “Open now, yeah?”

She nodded.

“‘M I ‘llowed back in?”

She nodded again.

She watched him clumsily pull himself up into bed – eyes already closing – and crawl under the covers. Then he collapsed facedown into a pillow, gave a single whole-body twitch, and went completely limp.

“Spike?” she whispered.

Absolutely no response.

 _Who knew you could literally kick Spike out of bed without waking him up?_ Buffy shivered.  _Just like Dawnie._

She realised with a start that this was the first time he’d ever  _slept_  in her bed – or at least, the first time when they were both aware and in full possession of their faculties. She was amazed by how alive he looked – still breathing and making tiny movements and sounds.  _Just like a real person._

He murmured something incoherent before shifting again, hugging a pillow to his chest and shuffling down in the bed until the covers were up to his nose and his freezing cold feet were burrowing under her bum.

It felt so intimate. And therefore terrifying.

It was also incredibly uncomfy sitting on feet-sicles.

Buffy slipped out of the bed. It was way past time she got up anyway.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara was making grilled cheese sandwiches for her and Dawn by the time Buffy – clean and dressed – finally made it downstairs.

She gave a little wave and slid onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

Tara gave her a welcoming smile, then turned back to a crucial stage in the grilling.

“Is Spike awake?” Dawn asked.

Buffy flinched.  _I don’t even rate a ‘hello’. Maybe he’s right. Maybe she really does think I hate her._ “How would I know?” she asked, pouting a little.

Dawn just kept staring at her, perfectly expressionless. “So he’s downstairs, then?”

“I guess.” Buffy shrugged – she hoped nonchalantly; Dawn thought guiltily.

“Okay,” Dawn said blandly. “He usually gets up around 2:00. Maybe I should take him down a cup of tea or something.”

“No!” Buffy squeaked. “He, um, he told me he wanted to, uh, catch up on some sleep today.” She nodded several times.

Dawn shot her a death-glare. “Whatever.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence, watching Tara cook.

When Tara finally flipped the sandwiches onto plates, Dawn grabbed hers and stomped out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, the TV switched on.

Buffy groaned and dropped her head onto her arms.

Tara gave her shoulder an awkward pat. “You want a sandwich?”

“Not so hungry,” Buffy said, raising her head blearily. “Oooh, but coffee….” She got up and started preparing the coffee maker.

Distantly, they heard the hum of the bathroom fan, followed by the shower starting up.

Buffy dropped the bag of filters, spilling them all over the floor.

They both carefully avoided looking at the basement door.

Tara cleared her throat. “Maybe he was dying his hair?” she suggested.

“Right,” Buffy said hoarsely, clutching at the excuse like a drowning woman. “Must be.” She started picking up the fallen filters.

“So,” Tara said. “Um, anything interesting happen on patrol last night?”

“Yeah, actually,” Buffy said, standing up, grateful for the distraction.

Tara looked up with a worried frown. “Bad-interesting?”

“No,” Buffy said thoughtfully. “Just weird. This vamp threw all this money at me, said, ‘Take it, just please don’t kill me!’ I think he was even crying a little.”

Tara frowned. “Way weird.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said.

“So did you kill him?”

“Of course!” Buffy snapped. “Slayer, The, remember? It’s what I do.”  _All that’s left of me._

Tara ducked her head. “O-of course. Just if he was begging….”

“He was a  _vampire_ , Tara. Not so much with the sympathy-making.”

“Right. Vampires bad. Got it.”

“Exactly.” Buffy nodded her head decisively.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Buffy eats breakfast, the Geeks plot, the Council makes an appearance and Tara makes a decision_

Buffy sat in the kitchen drinking coffee – Tara had long since gone back to Bond-ing with Dawn (cue drumroll). And Buffy knew she should be there with them now. But it was calm and dark and quiet in the kitchen and she didn’t want to leave.

Feet thundered down the stairs.

Spike’s feet.

When she heard the murmur of voices over the TV, she assumed he’d sat down with the others. But a few seconds later, Spike was standing silently in the kitchen doorway, watching Buffy huddle around her mug. The blinds were drawn and all the lights were off. She looked like she was hiding. She probably was.

He crept around behind her, amazed she still hadn’t noticed him. “Hey,” Spike whispered into her ear.

Buffy nearly jumped out of her skin. “God, sneak much?”

He laughed. “Aren’t you s’posed to be able to mystically sense me?”

Buffy twitched her shoulders uncomfortably. “Never did too well with that part.” She watched him warily, certain that whatever he’d come in here for would involve lots of noise and movement and  _talking_  and it would shatter the gentle dusky peace she’d found for herself.

But to her surprise, he didn’t even turn the lights on. And he was smooth and silent, pulling out a bag of blood from the fridge and pouring it into his super-sized mug without a single clink.

Buffy made a moue of disgust at the sudden coppery scent in the air. She wasn’t even aware she’d done it until she saw the smile slip from Spike’s face and the tightness across his shoulders when he turned to put the mug in the microwave.

Each beep made her flinch, before the whir of machinery started up, overpowering even the distant sound of fighting from the TV in the other room. “You eaten?” he asked, still facing away from her.

“Not hungry,” Buffy replied. Then –  _of course_  – her stomach growled. Loudly.  _Stupid stomach._

Smile creeping back, Spike went to the fridge and started pulling out ingredients and putting them on the counter. After he shut the door, he grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and scribbled something onto the communal grocery list.

Buffy was suddenly struck by his extreme at-home-ness in her kitchen.  _Or was it their kitchen now?_  His weird hodgepodge of stolen bar glasses and novelty mugs and perfectly sharp knives with cracked handles hadn’t just infiltrated, they’d  _occupied_  – found permanent homes and taken out a cable subscription. Most of grocery list was in his old-lady-scrawl – although that might just be because he never, ever, did the grocery shopping….

Watching him wash and prep vegetables – barefoot, hair perfectly coiffed with more product than any sane person needed – Buffy decided that all he needed was the twinset and pearls and he’d be the perfect ‘50s housewife.  _Maybe a frilly apron…._

She sniggered.

Spike dropped what he was doing and stared at her – shocked. He hadn’t seen her look like that since … since before the hell bitch. He couldn’t think for the life of him what she could’ve found funny.  _But, hey, whatever works, right?_  ‘Cause it had to be something he’d done, didn’t it?

Buffy watched Spike’s face light up with … smugness?  _Weird._  She was sure he was about to say something, but then the microwave pinged, making them both jump.

Buffy watched him take the mug out and shake whatever that spice was he liked over it before giving it a quick stir with his index finger. She closed her eyes while he licked it clean. When she reopened them, he seemed tense – almost nervous. She finally twigged that it must be over her reaction to his breakfast. But to her surprise, instead of being annoyed or disgusted, it just felt … domestic. That and she wondered why he wasn’t adding any Weetabix.  _We must’ve run out again._

He let out a soft sigh of contentment when he’d drunk it all down. Buffy suspected he didn’t even know he was doing it … and it was almost cute, in a weird way. Like that blissful look little kids always seem to get from eating chocolate.

_I did_  NOT  _just compare blood with chocolate._

Spike gave the mug a brief rinse and put it in the dishwasher.

“So what are you making me?” Buffy asked, a little surprised by her own willingness to break the silence.

“Omelette,” he said, a little wary.

“With cheese?”

He nodded, the edges of his eyes starting to hint at a smile. “With cheese.”

“I like cheese,” Buffy said, as if revealing some great secret.

The smile broke fully across his face. “I know.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“This is pathetic!” Warren shouted, looking through the pile of bills in front of him. “There’s not even a thousand dollars here.”

The Buffy-bot looked distressed. “Have I not pleased you? I slayed lots of vampires.”

“You did great, sweetheart,” Warren’s voice softened. He patted the bot’s head.

The bot grinned. “I said ‘your money or your life!’ just like you told me to. And then I took both!”

“It’s not your fault the scourge of Sunnydale is stony broke,” Warren said. “Stupid suburban Hellmouth.”

“I tried to tell you,” Andrew said smugly. “Demons don’t use people-money.”

“What do they use, then, oh fount of all knowledge demon?” Warren sneered.

Andrew looked over at Jonathan for support – but he had become suddenly fascinated by the musty old book he was reading.  _Turncoat!_  “I don’t know!” he whined. “It depends on the species.”

Warren groaned theatrically. “We’re already more than halfway through the bank heist money. And while this is truly a kick-ass lair,  _eventually_  I want to get out of my mom’s basement.”

“You could stop lighting cigars with fifties,” Jonathan muttered.

“What was that, Jonathan?”

“Nothing! Nothing. Just, um, reading aloud over here.”

Warren watched him for a few seconds. “What we need is something that’ll give us enough to build something really impressive.”

“Can we have an island?” Andrew asked, getting excited.

“I don’t see why not,” Warren said.

“Or….” Andrew suddenly looked ready to cream his pants, and his voice was full of holy reverence. “We could build a Death Star.”

Warren and Jonathan shared a look, then turned back to Andrew and simultaneously said, “No, Andrew!”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya had been absolutely right about the madness of closing the shop on a Saturday in the lead-up to Halloween.

There was a group of twenty-odd disgruntled customers outside the door by the time Giles got back – all of them clamouring for attention. By the time he’d done the rounds of obsequious apologies and assured them that, yes, Anya would be back on Monday, he was wishing desperately he’d been just a little bit less alcoholic in the immediate aftermath of Buffy’s death. He vaguely remembered getting through both of his “emergency” bottles somewhere in the haze of day two or three….

He’d hired Anya so he could avoid days like this, when his feet hurt and his face ached from too much placatory smiling. But at least he wasn’t wearing a hat.

He was amazed to discover that not having all of Buffy’s friends constantly underfoot had not made everything easier, as he’d always assumed it would. He missed the chatter, the jokes, and – God help him – the donuts. But mostly he missed how their presence had meant he could nip into the back for a cuppa whenever he wanted, with some assurance that nothing too awful would happen to the shop while he was away. Alone, it was well after four o’clock before there was enough of a lull that Giles felt justified in putting out the “Back in five minutes” sign and escaping to the office.

It struck him, suddenly, that Anya must be exhausted from doing this every day all these months. Perhaps they should discuss hiring an assistant, at least part time, so that Anya could—

Giles’ mind stuttered to a halt. What  _would_  Anya do with more free time? He tried to think of things he knew she enjoyed, and all he could think of were vengeful torture, counting money, and sex.

_Didn’t she mention bowling once?_

He was just picking up the kettle to go and refill it while trying – and failing – to imagine Anya bowling, when the phone rang.

“Magic Box,” Giles said, too exhausted to bother with pleasantries.

_“Giles? You_  are  _there. Excellent.”_

Giles nearly dropped the phone. “D-Davis?” Davis was a Council colleague – and most certainly not a friend. Why on earth would he be calling?

_“It has been most tedious constantly getting the machine.”_

“Why—”

_“Helen will be relieved to hear you’re alive and well,”_  the other man added smarmily.

“Helen?” Giles repeated, dazed.

_“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own girlfriend, man?”_

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Giles said sharply.

Davis laughed merrily. _“Does she know that?”_

Giles sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “Two and a half dates hardly constitutes a deep and meaningful relationship. Not that it’s any of your business.”

_“It became my business when she started ringing the bally office,”_  Davis snapped. _“_ We  _knew your disappearance wasn’t work-related, even if she didn’t.”_  His voice regained its smug children’s-television-presenter quality.  _“So here we all are.”_

“How did you know where I was?” Giles asked weakly.

_“Rang Devon, in the end. Terribly uppity bunch – shame they’re such powerful allies.”_

Giles relaxed slightly. The Coven had had much the same opinion of the Council. “They don’t have this number.”

_“No. But it is on the Magic Box website! Hardly rocket science, old boy.”_

“There’s a website?”

Davis laughed again. Giles thought he might even have heard a knee-slap. Sometimes he wondered if Davis thought he was in a Wodehouse novel.

_“You really weren’t joking when you said you’d lost touch, were you? But I suppose you weren’t there that long, all told. Even if your Slayer had a remarkably long run.”_

Giles wanted to hit him.  _Five years. Only a lifetime._

_“Look, Giles, you know me – not the nosy type – but you’ve bunked off work for more than a week now with no word to anyone, and tongues are starting to wag.”_

Giles opened and closed his mouth several times, at a complete and utter loss as to what to say.

_“A man with your sort of history can’t just disappear.”_  Davis let out a patient sigh.  _“It’s not anything to do with the Hellmouth is it? Because you really must tell someone if it is. We may not have an active Slayer right now, but there are always … options.”_

“No!” Giles almost shouted. “Nothing like that.” He didn’t dare guess what sort of options Davis might consider.

_“Most glad to hear it.”_   Davis paused. With sudden and unexpected sympathy, he added,  _“I know you and your Slayer were … close. But Giles – Rupert – it’s no good keeping on like this. Whatever it is that’s called you back there, you need to let it go.”_

Giles desperately wanted to laugh. “I, er, I do apologise for not leaving proper word. I shall certainly ring Helen directly to ensure she doesn’t bother you again.”

_“Appreciate it.”_ All traces of sympathy gone, Davis said, _“But you still haven’t told me why you hared off to Sunnydale in such a god-awful hurry.”_

“There was a problem with the shop,” Giles started, thinking furiously. “Hellions in Sunnydale. I, er, I was needed to sign things. Insurance. You know.” It was all perfectly true. Just … a day or so late.

_“Ah,”_  Davis said, oozing genial affability again.  _“I always thought it was something like that. But you know Travers. Always keen to get to the bottom of anything … unusual.”_

“Of course,” Giles said warmly.  _Tit._

_“So we’ll expect you back any day, then? Understand your ticket out was one-way. Assume it was timing or some such. Last-minute. All that. But no reason for you not to be back by Monday week, is there?”_

“I’ll keep you posted.”

_“Good-good. Ta ra, then.”_

Giles’ fingers were trembling when he replaced the phone on the hook. He had not devoted a single second’s thought to what he would tell the Council about Buffy’s resurrection.

_Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Davis stared at the phone. The hellions story was … plausible. Quite possibly true. But not certain. He picked up the receiver again, and started dialling a completely different California number.

“Smith? Davis here. I presume you still have someone in position?”

_“Yes, sir, Anna—”_

“Don’t tell me her name, you idiot!”

_“Sorry, sir.”_

Davis smiled benevolently. Smith knew how to speak to his superiors. “I want you on stand-by. She may need to act, and soon.”

_“Yes, sir. Er, November Sierra or, uh, Juliet Bravo, sir?”_

“Not clear yet,” Davis said thoughtfully. “But I’ll be in touch in the next two weeks with instructions.”

_“Yes, sir. I’ll be waiting, sir.”_

Davis hung up.

Giles would be watched, on his return. And perhaps it was time the Council sent an operative to Sunnydale….

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“I have an idea!” Andrew squealed.

“Does it involve cheese?” Jonathan asked.

Warren and Andrew both stared at him.

Jonathan shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

“We could put lasers on sharks,” Andrew said proudly.

Warren blinked a few times. “You’re watching  _Thunderball_ , aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Jonathan frowned. “How would that get us money?”

“I dunno.” Andrew shrugged. “But it’d be cool.”

“God, you’ll be suggesting freeze rays next,” Warren muttered. “Such a geek!”

“What about something like what Richard Pryor did in  _Superman III_ ,” Jonathan suggested. “You know, stealing all the rounded partial cents from payroll.”

“I have blocked that film entirely from my mind,” Warren said with a shudder. “There were two  _Superman_  films. Two! And don’t even get me started on  _Supergirl_.”

“But evil Superman!” Andrew said. “It was Christopher Reeve’s best performance  _ever_.”

“I thought  _Rear Window_  was more impressive,” Jonathan said thoughtfully. “I mean, who would’ve thought he’d go back to acting as a paraplegic?”

“Forget all that. The point is the  _money_ ,” Warren said. “And that whole salami-slicing thing is not only lame, but it’s been done to death. No way that goes undetected these days.”

“Fine,” Jonathan sighed. “What’s your idea then?”

“The M’Fashnik worked without a hitch. I think our kind of specially-armed robbery is the way forward.”

“Where are we gonna find a big enough score in  _Sunnydale_?” Andrew asked.

“Who says we have to limit ourselves to Sunnydale?” Warren asked. “It’s just a matter of time before we find something. In the meantime, we need to be ready. We play to our strengths – we plan.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Andrew whined.

“We’ve got everything we need in our temporary lair now. If we watch our spending and keep sending our Slayer out for top-ups, we’ve easily got enough to spend a few months planning. When we’re ready? We go on a spree. Maybe in the spring.”

Jonathan grinned. “Like  _we’d_  be the apocalypse?”

“Exactly!”

Andrew laughed – maniacal laugh number four. It seemed appropriate.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara switched the TV off and got a grateful half-smile from Buffy. They were alone in the living room now, Spike and Dawn having just left – to buy a new car, of all things. Apparently whoever or whatever it was that had tried to kill Spike last weekend had been more successful with his car. Tara was struggling to picture Spike in a car with visible windshields, let alone a modern model. Although it must be even weirder for him – he said he’d had his car  _forty years_.

Tara surreptitiously peeked out from behind her textbook to look at Buffy again. She was still curled into a ball under a blanket in the corner of the sofa, but she was back to the thousand-yard-stare, now pointed at the wall just above the TV. Tara had hoped Buffy wasn’t going away like that anymore. But maybe she was just learning to do it where no one could see.

Tara wondered suddenly if anyone was openly acknowledging Buffy’s, well,  _brokenness_  since the resurrection. There’d been a certain amount of ‘oh no, nightmares’ at the beginning, but Tara got the impression that, like her, they were all following Buffy’s lead and acting like nothing was wrong. Dawn really wasn’t kidding about that denial thing.

Tara wished– not for the first time – that this group of people who loved each other like family and who were so selfless and dedicated and capable at confronting and battling evil could be just a little bit better at acknowledging and dealing with each other’s emotions. All of the issues that Tara had observed herself – and most of the ones Willow had described to her from the past – boiled down to not talking to each other, usually out of fear of the fallout. Tara had been amazed at how easily they’d accepted Willow and her as a couple – from the depth of Willow’s fear and anxiety, she’d expected homophobia at the very least. But there had been nothing – at least, nothing beyond the exact same distrust of outsiders she’d observed with Riley and Anya.

It had made such a difference to Tara when Dawn asked how she was doing this morning – and with an expectation of a  _true_  answer instead of a convenient one. She wondered if anyone was asking Buffy. Spike was, probably – because you couldn’t really hide anything from him. It was one of many reasons that he made Tara uncomfortable.

Tara didn’t want to idly stand by and watch Buffy drown. Whatever Tara decided about living here – or about Willow – she knew she didn’t want to keep doing that Scooby thing where you pretend everything’s fine when it really isn’t. Tara cleared her throat and licked suddenly dry lips. “B-Buffy?”

After a few seconds, Buffy blinked hard and turned slightly unfocussed eyes on Tara. “Hmm?”

“Look, I, I know we’ve never b-been close or anything. A-and you’d probably rather talk to Sp—”

Buffy flinched.

“Someone else,” Tara corrected herself quickly. “But I can see that you’re, um….”

Buffy’s eyes seemed to grow impossibly large.

Tara started talking faster, almost breathlessly, unconsciously ducking her head so that her hair was shielding her. “If you’d p-p-prefer that I just act like everything’s fine, then, you know, I c-can. But I thought, maybe, you’d want to know that it’s okay – with me – if you’re, you know, not-okay. If you know what I mean.”

She anxiously watched while Buffy’s face wavered, half-crumpled, then wavered again. And then she seemed to call on something inside herself, and it was like she wiped her own fragility away like chalk off a blackboard and Tara was left staring at the straight spine and perfectly calm eyes of a warrior.

Tara was suddenly terrified that she’d been wrong – that there was a really-real reason they all feared each other’s reactions so much. But to her surprise, instead of being angry, or dismissive, or denying anything, all Buffy said was:

“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” Her voice was quiet, but clear and decisive. And then she smiled, slipped off of the sofa, and went upstairs.

Tara wasn’t at all sure what to make of it. But at least she’d tried. It was Buffy’s choice now, whether to take her up on the offer.

She put down her textbook, and walked slowly and steadily towards the kitchen. For the first time since the breaking of the memory spell, she felt like she was ready to talk to Willow.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Willow and Tara talk_

Willow came to a stop outside the Espresso Pump, and stood, transfixed, watching Tara ordering her drink at the counter.

She was moving stiffly, like her back hurt.  _Must be from when the door hit her…._  Willow hoped she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

Willow pressed her hand against the glass, moving her fingertips so they appeared to be stroking Tara’s face.  _Are they taking care of you, baby?_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara stared down at her tea, her stomach so full of butterflies she was a little afraid to drink. Her bag held everything she needed to perform the spell Giles wanted her to cast on Willow. She hadn’t decided yet if she would do it – or what she’d tell Willow about it.

She crushed the teabag against the cup with her spoon, watching the cloud of dark reddish-brown send its tendrils out into the clear water.

When she looked up, Willow was at the counter, ordering.

Their eyes met, and Willow smiled at her. It was tender and hopeful and loving and everything Tara had hoped for. But also everything she feared.  _Does Willow think this means everything’s okay again?_

Willow picked up her order – Tara was glad to see it was hot chocolate and not coffee – and meandered through the other tables to reach Tara’s.

“Hey,” Willow said softly, coming to a stop. There were two other chairs at the table, one right next to Tara and one almost opposite her.

“Hey,” Tara said, even softer.

After a long and awkward pause, Willow sat down in the farther chair. Tara’s hair hung over her ears – ready for her to hide behind – and it made Willow’s heart break a little.

“How’s your back?” Willow asked suddenly, forcing herself to sound normal.

Tara felt tears prick at her eyes, but her smile was glowing.  _This_  was the real Willow – always hyper-aware of her comfort. “The b-bruises were pretty b-bad,” she said. “Healing, though.”

Every stutter was like a blow to Willow’s heart. There had been a time when Tara never stuttered around her. “Do you have arnica?” she asked. “I, um,” Willow faltered. “I took mine with me.”

Tara smiled. “Yeah. It was kinda hard using it, b-but I got there eventually.”

Willow opened her mouth, about to offer a healing spell, but then she thought better of it. “So, um, have you thought about what you wanna do for your birthday?” she asked carefully.

Tara smiled, relaxing a little. She could do small talk.  _And it’s not like anyone else is asking._  “I know I want to buy my first legal drink somewhere. But I hadn’t really gone beyond that.”

“You’ve got that nine o’clock seminar Wednesdays, so I guess it can’t get too crazy.”

Tara shook her head. “Mid-terms are the week after; seminar’s cancelled.”

“So, um Bronze-ing Tuesday?” Willow smiled wistfully. “It would be good to have a Scooby party.”

Tara frowned, thinking of how the noise from the TV had made Buffy flinch earlier. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea….”

Willow bristled. “If you don’t want me there—”

“No!” Tara said, flushing. “I just … I don’t think Buffy’s Bronze-ready yet.”

Willow pressed her lips together. Intellectually, she really did get that Buffy was not so interested in talking to her right now. But it still hurt that Tara – who had never been close to Buffy – was now her confidant.

Tara shrugged awkwardly. “It’s not really a Scooby party without Buffy, is it?”

“But I  _would_  be invited?” Willow asked in a small voice.

Tara looked at her. “If I w-wanted you out of my life, I w-w-wouldn’t have asked you to meet me today.”

They smiled shyly at each other, both relaxing a little more.

Tara thought about who else she’d invite to a birthday party if it wasn’t just the Scoobies. But she came up blank. All of her closer friends from freshman year had fallen by the wayside after she’d started hanging out with Willow. Some of that was just natural being-in-a-relationship, but most it was being part of such an insular group. She couldn’t even invite a third couple to one of the depressingly regular “double dates” she and Anya still pretended to enjoy. Although that was entirely Anya’s fault – when her conversation wasn’t supernatural, it was pornographic. It had only gotten worse after the lost months: all Tara’s normal friends thought she’d been out with mono.

“Oh!” Willow said, suddenly straightening up. “Did you know Xander and Anya split up?” Gossip was safe.

“No,” Tara said thoughtfully. “That explains what’s up with Anya, though.”

“You’ve seen Anya?” Willow asked sharply.

Tara nodded. “She came over for dinner last night.”

Willow frowned. “Who else was there?”

“Oh, just the people living in the house. I d-don’t think Anya meant to stay. She had stuff for Buffy to sign.”

Willow forced herself to remain silent on the subject of Anya and the paying of Buffy’s bills. She didn’t want to start an argument this soon. “Did Spike cook?”

Tara nodded. “Spaghetti.” She grinned. “And he ate a whole helping, too!”

Willow’s jaw dropped. “But it’s so  _garlicky_!”

“It made his mouth bleed.”

Willow shook her head. “He’s so weird.”

Tara paused, thinking. “You used to kinda like him, didn’t you?”

Willow frowned, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “He tried to kill me. A lot.”

Tara shrugged. “Yeah, but … I remember you talking about that time he tried to bite you right after he was chipped. You really felt sorry for him.”

Willow grinned wickedly. “It  _was_  kinda….” She held up her index finger, flexed, then let it droop into a crook. “He was practically crying. And … actually kinda flirty, now that I think about it. In a really ooky I-totally-want-to-kill-you sort of way.”

“How flirty?” Tara asked guardedly intrigued.

Willow shrugged. “He described the underwear I was wearing the last time he saw me.”

Tara looked completely freaked out. “And this made you  _like_  him?”

“He meant it nicely,” Willow said defensively.

“What changed?”

Willow’s face went stony. “Buffy died.”

Tara gave her a quizzical look. They’d all agreed an immediate and absolute embargo on the blame-game last May.

“If he’d just done what I told him, Buffy never would’ve had to go up there.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Bimmers are for stockbrokers having a midlife crisis,” Spike said petulantly.

“But it’s  _pretty_ ,” Dawn whined, lounging against the car in a disturbingly adult fashion. “And you said I could pick!”

“It’s a penis-mobile!”

Dawn sniggered. “Fine. How about that one?” She jerked her chin towards the left.

“The  _minivan_?”

Dawn’s doubled over giggling uncontrollably, her temporary cloak of maturity slipping off like water. “Your face!” she squealed. “I wish I had a camera.”

Spike groaned in frustration. “‘S nothin’ but cars for housewives or …  _Giles_.”

Dawn sighed out the last of her giggles, still clutching at her stomach. “This is a suburb, doofus. What did you expect?”

“It’s also a soddin’ Hellmouth!” Spike shouted. Pouting, he grumbled, “Should be at least a … I dunno … a GTX, or somethin’.”

Dawn didn’t understand why he seemed to half-cringe just saying ‘GTX’. “You want vintage, you’re gonna have to go to LA,” she said, in that high-and-mighty voice of hers Spike thought sounded like an eerie blend of his snark and Buffy’s quips.

Spike growled, shaking off the discomfort. “Sod this. ‘M getting a motorcycle.”

“Yeah,” Dawn snorted. “‘Cause  _that’s_  real practical for daytime driving.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“So I haven’t seen you on campus at all,” Tara blurted out, breaking several minutes worth of awkward but not entirely uncomfortable silence.

“No,” Willow said slowly. “I’ve arranged to do ‘independent study’ this semester – for which read submitting some of the totally unnecessary spaz-work I did last year.”

Tara made ostentatious shocked-face. “A  _slacker_  option?”

Willow smiled and ducked her head. “Yeah, weird, huh? With everything that’s happened the last few weeks, I’ve … I’ve been re-thinking my program, what I want to do.”

Tara felt one of the bands around her heart loosen. “That’s really great, Willow,” she said, smiling and meaning it.

Willow grinned. “All the modelling software stuff I’ve been working on just doesn’t seem so important anymore.”

“Oh,” Tara said, her hope fading with her smile. “That’s, um, interesting.”

“I mean, it’s hardly in the world-save-age category, is it?” Willow laughed, too consciously self-deprecating.

Tara cocked her head. “W-would you study magic if you could? Formally, I mean.”

Willow frowned. “I’m not sure,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve done so much … I think I’d struggle to find someone who could really teach me anything.”

Tara pulled back as if stung. “You used to think I had a lot to teach you.”

Willow’s smile faltered. “You kinda stopped wanting to.”

That stung worse. “Y-you noticed?”

Willow nodded cautiously. “Noticed when your altar got dumped in the closet, too.” Willow stared down at her hands. “And how you’re not taking any classes in your major anymore.”

Tara was dumbfounded. She’d convinced herself Willow was oblivious. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” Willow said quickly, smiling nervously. “I … I always figured you’d tell me when you were ready. I guess I just … I didn’t think it would take so long.”

Tara stared down into her tea, letting her hair obscure her face.

Willow reached out to take hold of Tara’s hand, but stopped half-way, letting her arm rest awkwardly on the table for a second before pulling it back and picking up her mug like that was what she’d intended all along. “You, um, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Willow said, not daring to look at Tara as she said it.

“I never – I didn’t  _not_  want to talk to you about it. It just … everything with Buffy always seemed more important.”

Willow’s face crumpled. “Nothing’s more important to me than you.”  _Why don’t you know that?_

Tara peeked out from behind her hair. “You were grieving. And it was … I think I wanted to b-be the strong one for a while. I think I needed to know I  _could_.” It was only as she said it that she realised how true it was.

What Willow really wanted to do was grab on to Tara and wrap her up in cotton wool or bubble wrap or something and make it so nothing bad could ever happen to her again. Instead, she tentatively stretched out towards Tara’s hands with both of hers and grabbed onto them. Tara accepted the gesture, but after a quick return squeeze, she let got and pulled her hands into her lap.

“You’ve  _always_  been the strong one,” Willow said, firmly and sincerely.

A squeak of laughter bubbled up and out of Tara’s mouth. “Yeah, right!”

“Will you tell me now?” Willow asked cautiously.

Tara searched Willow’s face, but saw only sympathy. “It’s to do with Glory,” she said softly.

Slowly, Tara started talking through all the things she’d been holding back for months. How practising the religion her mother had taught her made her skin crawl and her stomach roil because it felt too much like the mindless devotion that had been forcibly imprinted on her. And how her psychology degree – once so satisfying – was now a minefield of too-close-to-home-ness.

Willow didn’t ask any questions except those she needed to understand, and she didn’t interrupt to tell Tara how she felt about any of it. Nor did she insist the conversation become about her remorse or Tara’s forgiveness.

It gave Tara the courage to finally tell her the biggest part, about how uncomfortable she felt now about opening herself up to magic. How she hadn’t dared look at an aura in months, even though she’d used auras as a social crutch her whole life. How terrified she was of getting lost again, of drowning in power if she let it touch her again.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Willow asked, no longer sounding quite so sympathetic. “It’s … it’s pretty major.”

Tara flushed. “I told you … I d-didn’t want to b-bother you.”

“ _Bother_  me?” Willow looked stricken. “So you … you pretended like you were totally on board with everything I was doing  _all summer_ , when really you were terrified of connecting to any kind of magic? I would  _never_ —”

“Never what? Never resurrect Buffy? Don’t lie to yourself, Willow. You … my opinions have never changed your decisions.”

“What are you talking about?” Willow’s heart hurt from going too fast. “Were you lying to me all this time? Did you  _not_  want to rescue Buffy from Hell?”

Tara stopped. “N-no.”

“If you tell me you think something’s right – or wrong – I  _always_  listen!”

“Give me an example.”

“Spike! I never wanted to involve him with Dawn. Or for him to move in.”

“Oh,” Tara said. She was right.

“I hate it when you do this!” Willow sagged back in her chair. “I suggest something you don’t like and you go, ‘sure, Willow, we’ll do whatever you think is best,’ and then afterwards you’re all ‘well, of course  _you_  made a big mistake’ and …  I’m sorry but I’m just not perfect like you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“But it’s what you do!”

“I … I d-d-don’t….”

“You do! You have this calmness, this clarity about who you are and what you want and what’s right that I’ve  _never_  had. I’m always struggling. Always. But you never share. You just … you wait until after and then you  _judge_  when it goes wrong.”

“I … I’ve had so many people in my life try to choose for me. I never wanted that for you.”

Willow gave a sad half-laugh. “No one notices the choices I make.” Willow’ lower lip started to tremble. “I’ve always been the sensible one. The one no one needs to worry about because I’ll just naturally do the right thing, even though I never feel like I know what that is. I thought … I thought you cared. I thought you would tell me if I was wrong – that you were my safe space. You  _knew_  that. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I’m sorry,” Tara said. “I was wrong not to.”

“Yeah,” Willow said. “You were.”

“Only … only what happened when I did, Will?” Tara’s voice was suddenly getting loud enough to attract a few stares from surrounding tables. “You used Lethe’s b-b-bramble on me.  _Twice_. And you … we….” Her bravery deserted her.

Willow looked like she’d been hit. “I love you.”

Tara hunched into herself.

Willow stared at her, waiting for an ‘I love you, too’ that never came.

Long seconds later, Tara said quietly, “Giles wanted to b-bind your p-p-powers.”

For the first time since they’d sat down, Willow’s eyes sparked with anger. “I know.”

Tara straightened up and her eyes widened in shock. “How?”

“I overheard him on the phone.”

“Well, they can’t d-do it,” Tara sighed, hunching back into herself. “You’re too strong.” She hated the look of smugness she could see stealing over Willow’s face. “Sometimes you scare me, Willow.”

Willow’s face crumpled. She hated this fight. It always felt like she was someone else when they had this fight. “I never wanted you to be afraid of me.”

“I  _want_  to have faith in you. B-but it’ll take time. And … and you need to make some changes.”

Willow looked up at her. “I don’t know how we got to here.”

Tara pulled her bag up onto the table. “The coven suggested a different spell.”

“And you agreed?” Willow started to look angry again, but when Tara flinched away from her, she regained control of herself. Resigned, Willow asked dully, “What does it do?”

“I-it’s like a safety valve for really big magicks, so one person is always unaffected and can, um, keep an eye on things.”

“And Giles wants that to be you.” Willow felt the bottom of her stomach drop. “He thinks I’d hurt you.”  _He’s making you afraid of me._

Tara stared down at her bag. “He has reason,” she whispered.

“I’m not a bad person, Tara.”

Tara looked up. “I never said you were. Just … some of the stuff you’ve d-done lately has been, um, not-good.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike lit another cigarette. “What happened to your m— Joyce’s car?”

Dawn hunched her shoulders a little, the smile she’d been sporting throughout slipping for the first time. “It paid for the funeral.”

Spike frowned. “But I remember seeing it—”

“ _Buffy’s_  funeral,” Dawn corrected quietly.

Spike stared down at his feet. “How come?”

“I’m not – they weren’t exactly telling me stuff then.”

Spike gave her a dark look.

Dawn shrugged. “I think it was ‘cause she never got declared dead officially. The caretaker at Sunnydale Memorial … um, I forget his name.”

“Bert,” Spike mumbled.

“Bert. He got the gravestone, dug the grave. All that. No paper trail.”

Spike sighed out a plume of smoke. It could be just another thing he bought for the house – like the telly. Not really his at all.

Spike stalked over to where the salesman stood, still cowering slightly from their last less-than-polite conversation. “Oi, mate!” Spike glanced back at Dawn, watching him with her too-wide eyes. “Got any Cherokees?” he asked, grimacing a smile.

Dawn rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna have to replace her sometime,” she called after him.

“Shut it, you!”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Tara quickly and quietly performed the spell. No one at any of the adjoining tables noticed anything. There were a few minutes when they both felt a little fuzzy – like parts of each other were interchanging in a way that wasn’t quite ticklish and wasn’t quite headache-y but definitely was uncomfortable. But after that, nothing.

Tara leaned back in her chair, pushing her hair behind her ears and making Willow feel hopeful in a way she hadn’t since she’d first seen her through the window. It felt, for a moment, like they were back to where they’d been before Glory.

“D-does this mean we’re okay again?” Willow asked haltingly.

Tara’s heart sank into her boots. One hand gripped the table so hard it hurt.

One look at her face, and Willow was saying, “That’s a big fat ‘no’, then, huh?”

Tara raised one eyebrow. “What d-did you expect Willow? You … you took away my choices. You….” She thought about saying the r-word, but it stuck in her throat. Saying it would make it more real than she wanted it to be.

“I’m sorry,” Willow whispered.

“I know,” Tara said. “B-b-but sorry isn’t the point.”

 _Buffy said that._  Willow looked beseechingly into Tara’s eyes. “I tried to kill Glory, you know, after she….” Willow shivered. She still hadn’t fully processed the way rage had taken her over. “I hurt her.”

“When I was lost, you found me and b-brought me home,” Tara said. “That’s what matters.”

Willow gave her a watery smile. She could see that, for Tara, that really was what mattered. Suddenly, Willow had a totally unexpected but completely heartfelt wish for Anya to be there.  _She_  would understand about Glory: it was vengeance! For the first time since Oz had left for good, Willow felt unsure about Tara. There was no darkness in her – so much so that she couldn’t comprehend it in others at a really basic level.

Willow knew she had a dark side –  _D’Hoffryn_  had tried to recruit for Cripes’ sake! But she also knew she never wanted to give in to it. She needed someone in her life who would help her with that. She wasn’t convinced that Tara could.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What's the worst that could happen?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope no one's had health complications from the shock of a new chapter.... I wanted to think through some strictly canon stuff before returning to this, hence all of the other writing. But my other stories are all on the verge of being finished, so almost back to Family being my primary focus again. Promise.

Tara hadn’t left the Espresso Pump with Willow. She told herself – told Willow – that it was because there was still tea in her pot. But really it was because she couldn’t imagine a way for them to walk home together that wouldn’t be cruel. Either they’d have to part ways at Portico and Wellesley, or else there’d be a doorstop goodbye, and Tara just couldn’t bear to do it. So she stayed and she finished her thimbleful of tea.

But then, instead of leaving, she found herself caught up in watching the other customers – trying to read their stories from their body language and whatever snippets of conversation she could overhear. There was this one particular pair of – she assumed – high school girls that kept drawing her attention. They were sitting together at a corner table, and one was reading a book while the other  _pretended_  to be writing something, but really she was watching her companion. Tara was trying figure out if all the looking was nothing but you’re-in-my-line-of-sight-while-I’m-thinking-about-my-laundry, or if it was more of an I-kinda-like-you-but-I’m-afraid-to-say-so vibe. They looked young and wholesome and untouched by the darker side of Sunnydale. On the surface, anyway.

It was disturbing how little she could sense from them without seeing their auras.

Tara realised, suddenly, that she’d been restricting her social interactions to people she knew well enough that words and body language were enough. When was the last time she’d really spoken to a stranger? Or a casual acquaintance?

She looked over at the two girls and she unclenched the part of her that connected to magic, letting it flow through her. It was terrifying and painful from disuse but at the same time it was exhilarating and a little bit blissful. She shut her eyes and let her mind grow still and calm, then slowly reopened her eyes to look at the girls’ auras.

They  _glowed_. Both of those girls glowed with the clear red of passion and the bright pink of new love blossoming. Tara smiled to herself.  _So not about the laundry – you go, girls._

She let her gaze slowly travel around the rest of the café. There was a whole rainbow of colours, some dark and muddy with pain and disease, but many more just like the high schoolers: ripe with the promise of good things to come. There was even the shining silver spark of new life all around a woman ordering tea at the counter.

Still smiling, Tara let the magic go again. It had been hard – it had hurt, even – but it was okay. She’d done it. For the first time in months, she’d reconnected to magic and it had been okay.

Something that had been wound up tight inside her relaxed, unwound. There was still fear there, and uncertainty, but somehow, telling Willow about it – witnessing Willow’s complete and total faith in her strength – it had given Tara the courage to try.

Sometimes Tara really wished she didn’t love Willow quite so much.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn had been unusually silent ever since Spike came back from the salesman’s office with the keys to a dark blue ’97 Jeep Cherokee. He thought he’d wait her out – girl couldn’t hold back to save her life – but after five minutes of silent driving, he broke. “C’mon then. Spit it out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I just can’t believe you actually bought the thing.”

One eyebrow went up, but Spike didn’t say anything more.

“I thought you were joking!” Dawn said incredulously. “I thought looking at Jeeps was some lame attempt to put off replacing that hulking old clunker of yours.”

“Liked this one well enough an hour ago,” he grumbled.

“You weren’t supposed to agree with me! I was playing along – I thought there was gonna be a punch line.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Oh, gee, I don’t know. Could it possibly be ‘cause of the fifty-billionty times you’ve said you wouldn’t be caught unconscious and bleeding in an SUV?”

“Thought you’d ‘preciate a replacement for the car you lost – you an’ Buffy.”

“It’s  _your car_! It’s not supposed to be for Buffy!”

“What do you mean ‘for Buffy’ – you chose it!” He half-laughed. “An’ it’s not like she’ll ever drive it.”

Dawn snorted. “If it was for me, it’d be the BMW.”

“You can’t drive stick.”

“I could’ve learned!” Dawn shouted. She dropped back to normal volume. “How can you even afford this?”

“Been workin’ for Anya,” Spike said.

“You got a  _job_?” Dawn stared over at him, looking even more upset.

“What, legit’s a problem for you now?”

“Don’t you dare try to be reasonable at me!”

Spike took a surreptitious sniff.  _Not that time of the month…._  But he could still feel the frustration coming off of her in waves. He swerved the car off the road and into a layby, parking suddenly with a jerk. “Right. What’s this really about?”

Dawn slumped down in her seat, suddenly fascinated by her hands. “Your nails aren’t black anymore.”

Spike looked down at where his fingers were resting, naked, on the steering wheel. He hadn’t even noticed. “Refuse to believe this is about soddin’ nail varnish.”

“You wear sweatpants now. You used to sneer at people for wearing sweatpants.”

Spike frowned. “Since when d’you even notice my sleepwear?”

“Since when do you  _own_  sleepwear?”

“Since I worked out how bloody uncomfortable jeans are to sleep in!”

“You are so totally sleeping with her,” Dawn gasped. She made it sound like he was eating babies.

“Yes, Dawn!” he snapped. “ _Sleepin’!_  Never said I wasn’t.”

“ _So_ not the point.” Dawn waved a hand dismissively.

Spike blinked a few times. “We enter some kinda parallel universe when I wasn’t lookin’?”

“No,” Dawn hissed. “Moron.”

“Psycho!”

“God! You’re such a hypocrite. You feed me all this crap about not becoming some mindless little automaton, but that’s exactly what you’re doing!”

Spike’s hands clenched around the wheel. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. Enraged frustration would not be helpful right now. “Dawn,” he said slowly and carefully, “you’re makin’ precious little sense here.”

Dawn slammed herself back against her seat, hugging her arms against her chest. This was going all wrong. How could he not understand this? How could he be so stupid? “She totally denied you slept in her room this morning, you know. Said you’d been in the basement all night.”

That stung. It surprised him how much. Spike could rationalise it as Buffy not wanting to admit to the nightmares, but that didn’t feel quite right. He shifted around in his seat, not sure what to say.

“She’s lied every single time I’ve asked,” Dawn continued.

“What do you want me to say?” Spike snapped.

“What I  _want_  is for you not to sleep with Buffy right after she beats you up.”

He winced. “Dawn.…”

“God! You think you’re gonna fix her by letting her hit you? Or buying her a car? Or looking more like the preppy douches she used to date? It won’t work.” Dawn took in a deep breath and then let it out. “She’s using you and she’s ashamed to admit even that much and you think it’s Christmas come early! You’re such a pathetic loser!”

Rage flooded through him, shutting down brain function and shifting the bones in his face. “You bitch!” he roared.

Dawn stabbed at her seatbelt buckle to release it then started fumbling around to find the catch for the door.

Spike’s face shifted back. He held himself rigidly on his side of the car and said in his quietest, calmest, voice: “It’s after dark. Don’t risk gettin’ hurt ‘cause you’re mad at me.”

Dawn stopped. Face frozen, she closed the door and edged back into her seat. “Take me to Janice’s.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Sure.” Spike decided that he needed to get very, very drunk. Very, very soon.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow felt jittery and slightly unreal walking back to her parents’ place. As she put her key in the lock, she was struck by quite how much the house didn’t feel like home anymore. Her eyes were blurring with tears before she even made it through the door.

She fled to her room. It felt less like it belonged to a stranger now, but it still wasn’t right.  None of Tara’s scarves or sweaters were roosting in the chairs or at the end of the bed. There were no hair ties scattered over every spare surface. There were no long strands of brown-y-blonde hair on the floor or in the bed.

Willow gave in to the tears. She felt so lost. How could she have had doubts about  _Tara_? Tara was her everything.

_Wherever Tara is, it’s home._

If someone had told her six months ago that she would use Lethe’s bramble on her girlfriend, Willow would have laughed in their faces. But she had. Twice. Even if the second time wasn’t so much using it on Tara as using it on everybody. And that was basically an accident anyway – if that extra bramble hadn’t all got mixed in, it would’ve been fine. Probably.

_Or, you know, not._

Willow wasn’t even really sure why she’d done it anymore. She’d achieved nothing by it. Tara trusted her less; Buffy was just as unhappy. Even  _Xander_  was being all weird and standoffish now – although that was probably down to splitting up with Anya. He’d never dealt well with change.

But at least Tara had said she still wanted Willow to be in her life. That was something. And this new spell.... Willow could do the no-magic thing if it would make Tara feel safe again. She’d just have to focus on that. Take things slow. Win back Tara’s trust. That was very much in the realm of the possible.

Of course, no magic meant Willow wouldn’t be of any use to Buffy or, well, the  _world_  anymore. So as long as they were in Sunnydale, Tara couldn’t possibly want her to stop  _completely_. It just wasn’t practical.

So temporary magic-stoppage. Willow could absolutely deal with that.

She looked over at her desk: it was dominated by texts and notebooks on vampires and souls. There was even a brand spanking new orb of Thesulah – ten bucks well spent on eBay.

She didn’t think Tara could possibly have meant for her to stop  _researching_  magic. That was an all-Scooby thing. Research parties were, like, half their social life. And besides, anchoring Angel’s soul was all about giving him choices, not taking them away. That was a Good Thing, even before you got to the guaranteed-no-more-Angelus part. So no need to pack up any of this stuff.  _No sirree._

Might also be worth finding out what, exactly, would happen to Tara when –  _no, if_  – Willow were to do any magic. All Tara’d said was that she’d  _know_. What if it hurt? And Tara had a car – what if there was a loud noise or a flashing light or something? It could be dangerous.  _That’s something we really oughtta know about in advance, isn’t it? Knowledge is power, after all._

Willow started hunting through her books.  _She said it was for really big magicks so that’s probably elemental spells…. Empedocles, maybe?_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles sat in the chair across from Buffy, hands clasped, desperately wishing he was better at this – at any of it. He’d entered a completely dark house ten minutes ago and nearly jumped a foot when he realised Buffy was sitting completely immobile on the sofa, staring at the wall.

It had taken three tries to get her attention.

It should be Joyce doing this. Or Willow, even. This was not what Giles did. He took care of the business side of things – the Slayer side. He knew where he stood with evil and demons – even it wasn’t so much standing as falling over unconscious – but this….

“How are you?” he asked quietly, trying not to notice the shadows circling her eyes and the too-defined bones jutting out of her face.

“I’m … going,” she said. She smiled. It was weak and watery, but it was real.

Giles briefly squeezed his eyes shut in relief. “Your memory? Is it, er, is it coming back?”

Buffy froze. “Yeah,” she said quietly, dropping her gaze and staring into her lap. “There are still things missing, but nothing, um, nothing big anymore.”  _That girl who recognised me at the mall last week. Grade 10 French? I hope?_  “At least, I –I don’t think there is.”

She sounded so hesitant. It was heartbreaking. Giles continued: “A-and the nightmares? You, er, I mean I haven’t heard you….”

The ghost of a smile hovered over Buffy’s lips. “Gags are wonderful things.”

All of the colour drained out of Giles’ face.

“Kidding, Giles.”  _Kinda_. “Tara’s made me some knock-out tea a few times. That’s … helped.”  _And then there’s Spike…._  Even in her head, Buffy didn’t feel ready to articulate what he did for the nightmares.

Giles watched her stare off into the middle distance somewhere over his left shoulder.  _Watched. Always watching_. “Have you, er, are you still losing time?”

Buffy mentally scrambled. “What are you talking about?”  _You can’t know about this. You_  can’t _._

Giles realised, suddenly, that he’d never spoken to  _Buffy_  about this particular post-resurrection problem. His stomach dropped as he considered the possibility Spike had been mistaken. Or lying. “Spike—”

“He had no right to tell you.” Buffy’s eyes glittered.  _With_  rage _. Not tears. Rage._

Giles pushed down a sudden urge to laugh.  _I‘m about to defend Spike._   _Deservedly_. “It’s something I needed to know,” he said. “I had hoped you would confide in me, in your own time, but….”

Buffy shivered as the litany began again.  _I came back wrong. I came back wrong. I came back wrong_.

Giles desperately wanted to tell her it would get better, that if need be, he would turn the world inside out to make it better. Instead, he reached out to give her arm a pat and made a valiant attempt at a reassuring smile. “The, er, the Council has been in contact with me,” he said slowly.

Buffy snapped to attention. “Why?”

“I didn’t tell them why I came back.”

“And again with the why?”

“Well … at first because there wasn’t time, and then….”

 _Because I’m all wrong._  “What can they do?” Buffy asked, forcing herself to stay focussed. “Don’t they pretty much need me to justify, you know, everything?”

Since Buffy’s death, there had been a faction of Watchers pushing for Faith to either be released from prison or killed to call a new Slayer because a Watcher’s Council without an active Slayer had no business existing. But Buffy didn’t need to know about Council politics right now. “They have Faith,” Giles said, trying to sound confident.

Buffy snorted. “Oh yeah. ‘Cause I hear CIW’s just  _full_  of vamps.”

“Yes. Well. They may decide that a resurrected Slayer is … problematic.”

 _Or just wrong._  “This is hardly the first time I’ve died….” Buffy’s voice sounded smaller, uncertain.

Giles smiled. “True. But … Quentin Travers dislikes the unknown. This is … no one has ever done anything quite like you before.”

“That’s me – mould-breaker-Buffy.”

“They will almost certainly wish to, er, to test you.”

Buffy looked up at him. “What did you find when you tested me?”

Giles’ face went slack-jawed. “I – you noticed what I was doing?”

“Jeez, Giles, give me some credit. I’m not completely brain-dead.”

He smiled weakly. “You are …  _better_  than you were.”

“Huh?”

“The M’Fashnik—” Giles froze. He thought he’d seen something like fear on Buffy’s face for a second, but then it was gone.

“The M’Fashnik?” she asked, a little breathlessly. Its head had looked like porridge sloshing around inside a balloon when Spike had carried it out of the basement. And she’d done that, in some kind of crazy berserker rage she couldn’t even remember.

Giles nodded. “Spike mentioned that you crushed its skull?” There it was again – a flinch. What the hell had Spike left out? “I should have thought it impossible – M’Fashnik bones are notoriously, er, unyielding.”

“Huh,” Buffy said. “Go me?”

Giles studied her, now absolutely certain he was missing something. “You are stronger; your reflexes and senses are sharper, faster. I imagine you will also find it easier to learn new movements, although I did not test for it. You are, quite simply,  _better_  as a Slayer.”

“Oookay. But you have worry-face,” Buffy said uncertainly. “I mean, shouldn’t ‘better Slayer’ equal a safer world for puppies and Christmas?”

Giles nodded. “That would certainly be the best case scenario.”

“There’s a worst case scenario?”

“I haven’t a clue how or why it’s happened, Buffy.” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It  _could_  be just good luck, some quirk of your, er, your resurrection.” He smiled awkwardly. “But past experience tells me it is far more likely to be something more unpalatable: another manifestation of dark magic, possession, some sort of interdimensional passenger…. There could even be a – a residual connection to Osiris! I just don’t know.” Giles took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.

Buffy suddenly couldn’t draw breath. It was like someone was standing on her chest.

He didn’t lift his head, and he sounded exhausted when he asked her: “H-have you noticed any other … changes?”

A rushing sound roared through her ears, so loud she almost couldn’t hear her own words. “You think I came back wrong,” Buffy whispered.

Giles opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he looked up at her.  _To focus._  “Loathe as I am to admit it, I believe that is a very real possibility.”


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Just another Saturday night, part 1_

Tara let herself into the house feeling bright and hopeful like she hadn’t for a while now.

And then she saw Giles sitting at the dining room table with a collection of books and notebooks spread out in front of him.  _Research._  Her heart started racing. “H-has something happened?” she asked.

“Ah!” Giles squawked, knocking over a stack of books at his elbow.

Tara stifled a giggle. Clearly he hadn’t heard her come in. “I-is Buffy okay?”

“No! I mean yes! I mean – sorry,” Giles stammered, flustered. “She’s out – patrolling.”

“You’re in research mode,” Tara said, leaning against the doorway. “That usually spells badness with all capital letters and stuff.”

Giles carefully put his pen down. “The Council has demanded I return to England within the next ten days. They, er, they don’t know that Buffy is alive.” He gestured to the books and papers in front of him. “I am attempting to prepare myself for their reactions.”

“Oh,” Tara said, confused. “They won’t just be, y’know, happy? To have her back?”

Giles smiled tightly. “It’s always possible. But Buffy confuses the majority of the Council. When I reported her death, many were … I suppose ‘relieved’ is an apt way to describe it? I will almost certainly need to convince them that the darkness of Willow’s chosen spell has not, er, not compromised Buffy in some way.”

After a few long seconds of silence, Tara asked: “D-do we know that it hasn’t?”

“Has Buffy – did  _Willow_  said something to you?” Giles sounded terrified.

“No!” Tara said quickly. “No one’s said anything. It’s just … B-Buffy’s not okay. If it was anyone else, I’d say classic P-PTSD-D. But she’s  _not_  just anyone.” Tara frowned in thought. “Did Angel have problems like this? After hell?”

Giles looked thoughtful. “One can always hope.”

Tara shuffled uncomfortably.

Sighing, he continued, “My understanding is that the First Evil brought Angel back to kill Buffy. I doubt very much there is anything to be learned from his experience.”

“Oh,” Tara said, blinking. She’d never heard that part of the story before. “So, um, how long will you be gone?”

“At least two to three weeks. If the Council is difficult, perhaps double that?” Giles paused. “If I’m not finished by Thanksgiving, I’ll return for the holidays. With Joyce gone, I – I know I’m not family, strictly speaking, but….” He trailed off. More quietly, he added, “I just hope I’m not making a terrible mistake in leaving now.”

“Do you have a choice?” Tara asked, just as quietly.

“There’s always a choice,” Giles said grimly, “even when it’s for the least worst option. But I feel so certain there’s something going on here, something Buffy won’t tell me….”

“Spike probably knows,” Tara said.

“Yes. Well,” Giles said tersely. He slumped, sighing. “It was all so much easier when she hated him.”

Tara smiled weakly. “Maybe that’s why she talks to him – nothing to lose.” She shrugged. “B-but I’m probably wrong … I don’t really know her that well.”

“Does anyone?” Giles slumped back in his chair, fussing with the papers in front of him. “I’ve watched her through so many personal tragedies … only  _once_  has she ever asked for my help. And that was when she was worried that being the Slayer was somehow mystically affecting her personality.” Under his breath, too low for Tara to hear, he murmured, “So stupid. All Buffy  _does_  is love.”

He seemed frail, suddenly. Tara wasn’t used to seeing him so worried and uncertain. She unclenched to take a peek at his aura. It felt stiff and achy and  _difficult_  reconnecting to the magic so quickly after the last time.

_Oh._

There was a lot of darkness from doubt and uncertainty there. Guilt, too. But the love was … oh, the love was overwhelming. Tara could hardly believe it of him. Giles always seemed so … constrained. She was amazed, again, at Buffy’s ability to inspire love in people. And Tara thought she could understand a little better now why Xander and Willow had been so devastated when Giles left. “Trust your instincts,” she blurted.

Giles looked surprised and a little confused. Part of him felt very odd, being advised to trust his instincts by someone young enough to be his daughter. But he had been feeling a certain kinship with Tara recently. Never having been her teacher probably made it easier to see her as an equal….

“Buffy doesn’t have anyone except you on her side over there, right?” Tara continued, more confident now that she’d seen Giles’ emotional state.

“No,” he said slowly. “She doesn’t.”

“A-and there’s more resources there – books and people?”

Giles nodded. “I’ve done everything I can from here.”

“So it makes sense for you to go now,” Tara said gently. She paused. “Will you come back permanently? After?”

“I’ve got a flat until spring,” Giles said slowly. He’d accepted Anya and Xander’s offer of a sublet that afternoon. “Beyond that? I don’t know.”

“It’ll be okay,” Tara said. She laughed a little, gently. “We’ve been through worse.”

Despite himself, Giles felt buoyed by the assurance. Then with a sudden jolt of embarrassment, he asked, “How – are you well? I’m so sorry – I should have asked before.”

“I’m okay, I think,” Tara said. She took in a deep breath. And then she told him: her doubts about staying in Buffy’s house, what Dawn had said, seeing Willow and doing the spell. It felt good. He was calm and he didn’t judge. It felt like family.

They were so wrapped up in their conversation, they barely acknowledged Dawn when she came home a good forty minutes past her curfew. It only strengthened her resolve to sneak out with Janice for Hallowe’en – not like anyone would notice anyway.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Wanker!” Spike shouted back into the bar, before slamming the door shut.  _This_  was the other reason he never bothered trying to get drunk in all-human joints anymore: arsehole barman had cut him off. Then added insult to injury by taking his sodding keys!

Not nearly as far gone as he’d like to be and vibrating with thwarted desire to beat the shit out of something, Spike stomped down the road to pick up something to keep sobriety at bay en route to a  _proper_  bar – a demon bar. He did not want to be capable of thought right now.

He was just pushing through the shop door and blinking at the sudden brightness when he would’ve bet a purebred Persian he saw Buffy’s reflection running down the street straight past him.

Spike spun around, shocked. The other times the nightmares were as bad as last night and this morning, she’d acted borderline agoraphobic for at least a day after. He stepped out into the road, searching, but who- or whatever it was he’d seen they were gone now. He couldn’t even catch a scent.

Spike turned back to the shop, shaking his head. He wasn’t drunk enough for hallucinations yet, but apparently his senses had decided to conspire against his attempts to stop thinking about it.

Another drink or six would fix that.

It was so frustrating, knowing how it all must look from the outside – how it must look to Dawn. She needed to know about Heaven. They  _all_  needed to know. Buffy was shifty and guilty and taking it out on him because he was the only outlet she’d allowed herself – him and her nightmares. And there was so much rage and fear and  _grief_  locked up inside of her it was killing her by inches keeping it hidden. And he’d promised he wouldn’t tell.

_So fucking fucked up._

Especially when he knew how it could be between them. They  _both_  knew, even if she wouldn’t talk about it.

Booze, then a nice spot of violence. That’d set him right. No more goddamned thinking.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The vamp was all but begging her to make fun of him: bad hair, worse clothes, zero fighting skills, and body odour that could stop traffic. But even with all that ammunition, Buffy still couldn’t think of a single thing to say beyond the obvious “You: die now”. And even then, she couldn’t get the words out before he was dust in the wind.

Seconds later, her whole body was jerking towards movement just outside the range of her peripheral vision. Surprise, surprise, it was only leaves: she’d been jumping at shadows all night.

Drenched in sweat and fear, Buffy was becoming the prey she’d spent years pretending to be.

After what felt like her billionth time checking the darkness for monsters and finding weeds, she had an epiphany: she’d enjoyed patrolling before. Sometimes it had even been fun – murky shadows were presents not-yet-opened, and sad, pathetic vampires were chances to make herself giggle. It had lifted her spirits – made her feel confident and strong – no matter how bad the rest of her life was.

_When did that even happen? Patrolling used to be the thing ruining my life…._

And why was she only realising this now? Now, when patrolling really, truly felt like the despised duty she’d always told herself it was. Next she’d be thinking she’d lost interest in  _shopping_.

_Oh._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Going to the nameless bar just past Gilbert and Fifth had been a  _brilliant_  idea. This was a far cry from Spike’s usual sedate Saturday night of backroom poker with friendly demons who’d stop kicking you after they’d nicked all your kittens. The nutters in  _this_  place were all crazier than Dru and meaner than Angelus, bless ‘em.

Spike had long ago given up the whiskey tally and was just about through a wine bottle full of “virgin baby blood – guaranteed real baby”. It tasted like it had been liberally watered down with pig, but who cared? He was slurring his speech and had zero capacity for rational thought, which was the point of the exercise.

“Oi!” he shouted, smashing his newly-empty bottle on the table and only just avoiding falling over. “Who wants a fight?”

Everyone, as it turned out.

_Bloody fuckin’ glorious._

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Anya and Xander were sitting on the floor of their soon-to-be-ex-living room staring at the last three boxes, containing all the things they had left to divvy up.

The apartment was echo-y and silent, without the benefit of its contents.

It had been depressingly easy for the most part, deciding who got what. They were leaving all the furniture for Giles to keep or throw out – the only thing they’d bought new was the mattress and, like the apartment, neither of them wanted it for themselves. Anya was keeping all the kitchen stuff she’d brought from her old place – so basically everything – and all the electronics and things to play in them had come straight from Xander’s basement. The rest were things they’d never, ever argue over: clothes, Xander’s “childish” collectable toys and memorabilia and Anya’s keepsakes – for which read “gruesome trophies”.

In the first to-be-divided box were photos – framed and loose – plus housewarming gifts and a few bottles of nicer wine they’d been saving for a special occasion. The other two contained bedding, sex toys, and the contents of their dressing-up box.

“I don’t want the wine,” Xander said.

“It makes sense for you to keep the gifts – they’re all from your friends.”

Xander sighed. “They’re your friends, too.”

Anya snorted. “Willow thinks you belong to her and resents interlopers.” She paused. “Buffy is stuck-up and entitled and Tara has no obvious personality.”

“Gee, Anya, tell me how you really feel.”

She slumped back against the sofa. “I hate this.”

Xander scooted over to sit next to her, their shoulders and hips lightly touching. “Me, too.”

“I’m going to miss you,” she said quietly.

He laughed, bumping his shoulder gently against hers. “C’mon, no more snoring? It’ll be great.”

Anya scowled at him. “I … I care about you more than I do about me. I didn’t even know that was  _possible_. And tomorrow, that’ll be over.”

Xander shifted to put his arm around her. Anya laid her head on his shoulder. “You’re helping stuck-up, entitled Buffy,” Xander said. “That’s hardly selfish.”

Anya laughed a little. “Maybe.”

“Definitely.” He paused. “You keep saying you don’t care, but you do. You help. You make a difference.”

She looked deeply uncomfortable. “I’m not a nice person, Xander. I’m not … most of the others called themselves ‘justice’ demons. I was a  _vengeance_  demon, and I loved every minute of it. Maybe I should try and talk to D’Hoffryn again….”

Xander stuffed down a surge of panic. “Could you really do it? Go back to slaughter and torture and—”

“I don’t know.” She twisted around so her legs were in Xander’s lap and she was snuggled against his chest. “But I know I don’t want to punish you right now and that terrifies me. It’s not who I am.”

“It is the woman I fell in love with.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but we’ve already established you’re an idiot.”

They both laughed.

Anya started tracing her fingers over his chest. “So … you wanna? One last time?”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Buffy heard the pop of her knee going out before she felt the pain.

_Not good._

She’d hoped that by pushing herself – by finding some vamps who actually knew how to throw a punch without breaking their own thumbs – she might regain some of her satisfaction in slaying. Because if it was going to be as stressful and exhausting as shopping had been, she didn’t see how she’d ever be able to cope.

But just a few seconds in, Buffy knew that had been a big fat mistake. Her current opponent was an experienced fighter, and Buffy was badly off her game. Worse, she didn’t seem to be able to do anything about it. Three times now, there’d practically been a classified ad out for where the hit was going to land and she’d known exactly what she needed to do to block it, but somehow she … just …  _hadn’t_. And now she had a dislocated knee. Joy.

Buffy toppled over – and not in a controlled way, either. She jarred her elbow and her hip hard on a flat gravestone.

“Aw, poor Slayer,” hissed the vampire – an obscenely tall woman in full cyber-goth clubwear.

Looking up at the outfit, Buffy died inside a little bit more from the heavy losses to good quippage. But she still dutifully scissored her legs to take the vamp down. It wasn’t pretty and was effective only because of heels that would make a stilt-walker dizzy. So … not so obscenely tall, then.

It hurt. A lot. And that was how Buffy justified her failure to notice the rest of the nest coming. Because otherwise? There were jangly chains and fluorescent plastic things that were probably visible from space and lots and lots of squeaky …  _(p)leather?_

Even though there weren’t that many of them, the nest of fashion victims knew how to fight as a group. Before Buffy had a chance to stand, two of them had grabbed onto her wrists and stretched out her arms, leaving space for the other three to move in for the kill. Buffy managed to get her good foot underneath her, and sprang up into a backflip, snap-kicking the jaw of the vamp lunging for her neck. But the flip had only given her back one hand – the other was now pressed into a wrist-lock she couldn’t break.

Buffy felt fangs sinking into her shoulder, just before a white haze descended on her vision and the Slayer took over.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The Buffy-bot saw herself in Sunnydale Memorial cemetery, fighting too many oddly-dressed vampires.

Her protocols now specified that only demons likely to carry money should be attacked. The ones down there didn’t look wealthy – they were wearing  _pleather_.

The situation confused her: her files referenced a second Buffy, but contained nothing about why or how. Still, she had to defend herself, didn’t she? And that was definitely her down there. They were equally pretty.

Decision made, she ran towards them, shouting “Stand and deliver!”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The first thing Buffy was aware of was the pain. In fact, she briefly considered passing out because of it. But then she remembered that she was in the middle of Sunnydale Memorial and being unconscious-while-human in the middle of Sunnydale Memorial was a really, really bad idea.

She took stock of her situation: she was in a low crouch, with her bad leg stretched out straight in from of her – knee twisted drunkenly to one side. There was a lot of dust on the ground, plus a few links of chain and something that looked like a ripped tutu. Also wallets, weirdly. She really wished she could remember more than brief flashes of the fight – it seemed like something she should be bragging about.

Giles had definitely been right about the power-up.

Buffy very nearly started crying when she realised that neither the persistent taste of blood in her mouth, the memory loss, nor her wonky knee were her biggest problem right now. That award went to the pair of fangs that had broken off in her right shoulder. The wounds themselves weren’t bad  – they’d probably heal in a day or two – but the persistent trickle of blood coming out around them was just this side of terrifying.

She really needed to not be in the middle of Sunnydale Memorial.

Unfortunately, there was nothing around that could be used as a makeshift crutch, which meant going home was not an option.

She could see a bank of crypts on the crest of the next hill. Maybe a half-mile away? She could barricade the door and probably survive the night…. Someone would come looking for her. Eventually.

Buffy gripped her sole remaining stake tighter and started to half-crawl, half-hop, using gravestones for support where she could. She’d make it to the crypts … in about an hour. So long as she didn’t pass out or get eaten on the way.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Spike stumbled out of the bar, groaning but happy. Once the booze wore off the pain was going to be spectacular, but oh, what a glorious fight!

He blinked, trying to focus. He was pretty sure this intersection didn’t have more than three roads, but he could see six. More if he squinted. He stumbled off the edge of the pavement and had to sit down abruptly to avoid falling any further.

Scooting backwards to lean against the outside wall of the bar, Spike shut his eyes … just for a few seconds, to help with the focussing. When he opened them again, the moon had moved.

“Naughty moon,” he chided, wagging a finger at it. “Mustn’t creep up on a fellow like that.”

He giggled. After a few more seconds of trying and failing to work out which of the six roads in front of him was Gilbert, he found if he rested his head just right against the wall all that vision bollocks worked a bit better.

And there it was: “Third from the right – maybe fourth … an’ straight on ‘til mornin’!” Spike lurched to his feet, and started moving. “For’ard, left!”

Once on Gilbert, it was either cut through Sunnydale Memorial and along Peterson to Restfield, or back through the docks and down Main to Revello.

_Choices, choices. Thinking thoughts of choices and choosing is all thinking. All bad._

Spike put a finger to his lips and shushed himself. He could just about do upright and moving, but not if he was thinking too. He started shuffling home … he didn’t know which home, yet, but he was sure it’d come to him eventually.

Long as that moon stayed put, he’d be fine.

He was so intent on watching his feet to make sure they didn’t get tangled up again that he’d mostly stopped paying attention to anything else. Like which direction he was going. Or where he was.

Then he smelled blood. Buffy’s blood.

“Slayer!” he roared. In his haste to hare off after the blood trail, he tripped over a gravestone and knocked himself out on another.

The moon continued its trek across the sky.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Just another Saturday night, part 2_

It occurred to Buffy about a third of her way to the crypts that a montage would make everything better: some kind of roaring orchestral piece. Or maybe a power ballad. Something to fast forward through her more humiliating trips and falls and make each step feel just that little bit less slow and painful. But no. It was just one  _long_  agonising hobbling, hopping crawl across wet, slippery grass and mossy grave-markers.

Then, just when looking up at the remaining distance was becoming a hopeful exercise instead of a hopeless one, the first scavengers arrived: a pack of shambling, rotting ghouls.

Buffy launched herself off of the gravestone currently supporting her weight and brought her stake down hard on the nose – well, naked cartilage, really – of the first one that approached. It screamed, putrid grave-breath making Buffy gag, as the top third of its head caved in around the hole the stake made.

_Ew._

Clearly,  _someone_  hadn’t been patrolling very well while she’d been dead: ghouls were dumber than a box of rocks and very, very easy to kill unless they swarmed you. Kinda like supernatural weeds.

A solid punch sent its jaw flying through the air, at which point the ghoul finally stopped screaming. Buffy then yanked off one of its arms and tried for a home run against its knees. When it toppled over, the rest of the pack shifted direction to go after their flailing fallen packmate. She threw its arm down the hill, and a few more went after that.

 _Morons_. They might actually have overpowered her if they hadn’t gotten distracted. She shuddered at the thought of ghoul slobber and started moving again. She could outrun – _outshuffle?_  – them now, given the short distance left between her and the first crypt.

The pair of vampires who literally ran into her as they were coming out of that self-same crypt was a more worrying surprise.

Buffy resisted the urge to scream out her frustration, deciding instead that she was just going to kill Spike – slowly and painfully – after she survived the night. There shouldn’t be ghouls or nesting vamps in  _her_  cemetery. It was just …  _disrespectful_.

Buffy managed to stake the first one while they were all still reeling from the shock. The second was more challenging, but desperation and frustrated anger had given Buffy back a bit of her missing edge. He’d gone straight for her bloody shoulder, though, forcing the already-embedded fangs deeper and ripping the holes bigger. Her slow trickle amped up to a steady ooze.

Buffy half-fell into the newly emptied crypt, slamming the door behind her. After tying her belt around her arm in an attempt to stem the blood flow, she turned her attention to barricades. The crypt’s residents had kindly left a sarcophagus handy for that purpose, but unfortunately, trying to shove it across the door with only one good leg and one good arm was difficult, time-consuming, and making her blood pump harder and faster. Buffy managed to get it halfway across before deciding that was going to have to be good enough.

Collapsing on the floor alongside the deliciously cool stone of the sarcophagus, she took a moment to slam her knee back into place, then promptly passed out.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“… and then she bit off a chunk of his shoulder, and he was so surprised he just let her stake him. I barely had to do anything, and it turned out they were pretty rich, even if they  _were_  wearing pleather.”

“That doesn’t sound like Buffy….” Jonathan said dubiously.

“Oh, it was me,” the bot said, nodding and smiling. “Only a little better-dressed.” She looked down at her outfit, now the worse for wear from too many nights out mugging vampires.

“She’s really alive,” Andrew breathed reverently.

Warren was frowning, deep in thought. “We need to find out one way or the other.”

“What, like go knock on her door or something?” Jonathan asked.

“Ooh! Ooh!” Andrew said, waving his hand like he was still in school.

The other two stared at him in incredulity. Finally, Warren said, “Speak, Andrew.”

“We could turn her world into  _Sliver_.”

“That was a terrible movie!” Jonathan groaned. “Not even bad enough for Razzies.”

“But just think!” Andrew said. “Naked shower scene?”

All three of them paused to stare off to one side, imagining naked, soapy, Buffy. It was weird picturing that with the bot standing all quiet and quiescent in the room, but they managed. They were strong-minded that way.

Warren snapped out of it first. “While we’re filming, we could test her – find her weaknesses, so we can exploit them in our plans.”

“Hey, maybe we could have a contest!” Jonathan said eagerly. “You know, whoever has the best trial wins a … a … what could we win?”

“Um, he could be the leader for a week?” Andrew suggested.

“No,” Warren said. “ _I’m_  the leader here. You two would still be living in your moms’ basements if it weren’t for me.”

“Uh, Warren, we still kinda are….”

“Not the point!” Warren shouted. “Look, you two start thinking about your lame-ass trials. I’ll start rigging up a surveillance system. This is gonna be  _fun_.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Some hindbrain sense of self-preservation jolted Spike awake along with the pre-dawn chorus. He was moist with … dew, he hoped … and his head hurt. As did absolutely everything else. He reckoned he must be more sober by now, what with the headache and the being-awake, but when he tried (and failed) to stand up, he discovered that he was instead in that awful death-rattle of a good bender when you’re both drunk and hung over at the same time.

He groaned and tried again to stand – more successfully this time. As he started looking around, he was a bit puzzled to find himself in a cemetery. He had zero recollection of getting there and wasn’t even entirely sure which one he was in. There’d been a brilliant bar fight, he remembered that much, and then walking … but that was it.

There was a bank of crypts not too far distant, and Spike reckoned at this time of night they were a better bet than trying to guess which way to stagger home. He couldn’t say for sure if there were four of them or forty, but there was at least  _one_ , and that ought to do well enough.

He started moving slowly up the hill. After a dozen or so steps, he noticed his left foot was rather colder and wetter than it ought to have been.

He paused to look himself over. There were bits of rotted … something… all over his trousers. His left boot showed tooth marks and a couple of tears, but the draughty right boot could no longer truly be described as one. Its leather had been almost entirely gnawed off, leaving Spike with an anklet of shoelace and a socked foot fully open to the elements.

He was pretty sure there’d been two boots when he’d had his little lie-down.

Spike had been followed home from bar fights before – it was mostly why he’d stopped having this kind of Saturday night – so he gave himself a quick once over for injuries. There wasn’t anything major, but what there was looked like …  _dog attack?_  He took in a good sharp sniff of the gunk on his trousers and got a headful of:

Ghoul  _stench? Bollocks._

That was just … embarrassing – like having cockroaches. It also meant he had to be in Sunnydale Memorial. It was the only place he’d avoided enough that there  _could_  be ghouls.

Shaking his head, Spike started trudging back towards the crypts. He’d have to come back tomorrow night with fire: only way to really get rid of the buggers.

A few steps away from the first of the crypts, he caught the scent of fresh blood.  _Buffy’s_  blood. And it was sprayed all over the door to one of the crypts.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

The pounding cracks and splinters of breaking wood woke Buffy up with a start. She opened bleary eyes and saw a panic-stricken Spike frantically smashing the crypt’s heavy wooden door to pieces with a stolen piece of column.

Clearly her barricade had been nowhere near good enough.

“Buffy?” He hurled himself through the hole he’d made in the door, scratching his face and arms on shards of split wood as he burst through. His attempt to vault over the sarcophagus failed when his socked foot couldn’t get traction on the smooth stone, so he ended up falling face-first, sprawled out on the floor in front of her.

“Fuck, that hurt,” he mumbled, before edging himself up onto all fours, panting slightly. The shock of falling seemed to have jarred the last vestiges of drunkenness out of him, leaving only the hangover.

Buffy just stared at him for a few seconds. Then she hurled her stake at his head, blunt-side first. “IDIOT!”

“Ow!” he shouted, glaring at her. “Thought you were gettin’ drained in here!”

“What, so I’m Bonnie Taylor now?” Buffy gestured towards the gaping hole where the door had once been. “I was just fine until  _you_  destroyed my barricade!”

“The way this place reeks of soddin’ Slayer blood? That wouldn’t’ve kept out a kitten!”

“You let  _ghouls_  into  _my_  cemetery!” Buffy screeched.

“I know!” he shouted back. “They ate my bloody boot off!” Spike collapsed back onto his side, suddenly feeling unfit even for the glue factory.

Buffy looked over Spike’s ghoul damage. After a second, she started to giggle. She’d been numb before – concentrating on whatever the next thing was she needed to do to keep going, to survive. But her adrenaline high was gone now and she was exhausted and in pain and Spike had just taken the  _mother_  of all pratfalls and he was covered in ghoul yuck and only had one boot and suddenly it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen in her entire life.

Spike’s expression – sulky and sullen as a little kid – just made it funnier.

Once she’d laughed herself out, Spike propped himself up on one elbow and quietly asked, “Not like you to get this badly banged up.” He craned his neck to get a better look at her shoulder. “I’n’t the whole point  _not_  to get bit?”

She told him what had happened – even the lost time, to her surprise. She was still angry at him for telling Giles about that. He didn’t say much, just listened. That was even more surprising.

“Why’d you come out, anyway?” he asked finally.

She pointed at herself. “ _Slayer_ , dumbass.”

Spike snorted disdainfully. “Did the full rounds last night. No reason to come out tonight as well.”

“Uh, ghouls much?” She waved her hard around. “Inhabited crypts?”

Spike just rolled his eyes. “You know what your problem is? You’re so caught up in the soddin’ mission, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to  _live_.”

Buffy laughed, brittle and sharp. “When should I have been living, Spike? While hellions were trying to take over Sunnydale? Or maybe when Glory was trying to end the world? Oh, no, wait! It’s while my mom was dying, right?”

“None of that was  _today_ , though, was it?” he asked gently.

Buffy shifted uncomfortably. “No.” They sat in wary silence for a while. Then, “Spike?”

He made a noncommittal grunting noise.

“Why did you stay? When I was dead, I mean. You don’t … the whole keeping-the-world-safe isn’t exactly your thing.”

Spike turned back to her. “Promised to keep Dawn safe, didn’ I?”

“Yeah, but … patrolling?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t start out like that. I was … angry, I guess? Wanted to take it out on somethin’. Sort of got to be habit.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever thanked y—”

“Never have.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Well, thank you.” She paused. “Even though you did a lousy job on the patrolling part.”

“Welcome,” Spike said quietly. He sat up and went to sit next to her. Without really thinking about it, Buffy leaned against him.

“When I used to, uh, walk by your house from time to time—”

“When you were stalking me, you mean?” she asked.

He grimaced. “Point is, back then you were existin’, not livin’. Barely sleeping or eating. All stoic and smiling if anyone was there to see, then bawlin’ your eyes out soon’s you were alone with the dishes.”

Buffy pulled away from him and let out a slow, shaky breath. She’d known he was … around … a lot, back then, but it felt invasive and creepy knowing anyone had witnessed her nightly routine of crying-with-chores. Weirdly, she didn’t feel anywhere near as disturbed as she’d expected to – maybe because of what else Spike had witnessed the last couple weeks, “Guess I need to work on that vamp-dar, huh?” she said, trying to make light of it.

Spike grinned. “Pro’ly.”

“Or maybe I just need better curtains in my kitchen.”

He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I, uh … might possibly’ve spent more time in the basement than the back yard….”

Buffy counted to ten in her head, focusing on deep, even breaths. “How often were you inside my house?”

“Er, a lot?”

Buffy suddenly had imminent-meltdown face.

“‘M very, very sorry,” Spike said quickly.

“Tell me that you get how wrong that was.”

“Very wrong,” he said, even quicker.

“Like,  _majorly_ , immediate stake-to-the-heart wrong.”

Spike nodded rapidly.

Buffy sighed. “And you felt the need to tell me this now because why?”

“‘Cause you’re goin’ straight back to it!” he said, frustrated and not at all sure that opening his mouth wasn’t about to backfire. “There’s nothin’ tryin’ to end the world right now. Let your gang of idiots look after you for a change.”

Buffy thought about what Tara had said to her earlier – that it would be okay if she admitted she wasn’t okay. Then how much of a relief it had been asking her and Willow for rent money and getting it. Just like asking Anya to take care of the bills and stuff had been. And asking Spike to keep the nightmares away.

But none of that really mattered. “They need me to look after  _them_ ,” Buffy said stoically.

Spike laughed. “They’re adults. ‘Bout time they stood on their own two feet.”

“Dawn isn’t an adult.”

Spike’s voice tightened. “What Dawn needs most is for you to tell her where you really were, and that she’s not to blame for hundreds of years of torture. That gonna happen?”

Buffy hunched into herself.

“Here.” Spike dropped his cell in her lap. “Why don’t you ring the house and ask someone to come pick us up? Good a place to start as any.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles snapped awake at the sound of the phone ringing. He stumbled out of bed and up the stairs to the kitchen, where he saw Tara in the act of picking up the receiver.

 _Tara_  – not Buffy. Giles’ stomach dropped.

“Hello,” Tara said sleepily.

While she listened – expression growing increasingly worried – Giles ran through all the possibilities: Buffy was paralysed … dead…  _turned_.

“Oh! O-okay, Buffy.”

Giles sagged back against the basement door, his knees suddenly threatening to buckle with relief.

“Yeah, I’m happy to stay here in case Dawn wakes up.” She stopped to listen again. “‘Kay, bye.” Tara hung up and smiled at Giles, who was pasty and sweating. “She’s  _fine_. Mostly. Just a twist-y knee and stuck in the middle of Sunnydale Memorial.” Tara paused. “Breathe, Giles.”

Giles let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry, just….”

Tara smiled. “Take my car; go pick them up.”

Giles frowned in confusion. “Them?”

“Spike’s with her – she was calling from his cell.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Silence reigned on the drive back. Spike and Buffy had opted to save Tara’s upholstery from blood and bits of decomposing ghoul by folding down her back seats and sitting in the hatch. But Giles suspected it had more to do with neither of them being very happy with him just then – he’d had difficult conversations with both of them today and they’d certainly never showed any consideration for  _his_  upholstery before. Or Xander’s. Or Cordelia’s, for that matter.

And now they were whispering to each other. Again.

When they finally arrived back, Spike carried Buffy into the house – as he had carried her into the car before. Giles couldn’t remember her ever submitting to being carried – not while conscious, anyway. But, then again, Buffy’s knee had never been three times its proper size before, either. Perhaps he was overthinking things?

Yet Giles felt … superfluous, following them into the house. He hovered in the hallway while Spike set Buffy down at the dining room table and went to get the first aid kit from the kitchen. There was a low murmur of voices as Spike and Tara discussed something.

_Perhaps she should have been the one to pick them up._

Giles stepped cautiously into the dining room. “Er, shall I get you some ice?”

Buffy shook her head. “Thanks, but I want a shower first – well, a bath, really.” She smiled weakly. “Not sure I’m up to standing right now.”

Spike came back into the dining room with a pair of tweezers and a package of antiseptic wipes. “Those fangs need to come out or your skin’s gonna close ‘round ‘em.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Ya think?”

“F-fangs?” Giles asked weakly. Instead of answering, they launched straight into an argument about whether or not it was necessary to cut Buffy’s shirt off.

This had been Giles’ role, once – patching Buffy up after patrols. But she’d stopped coming to him at some point…. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable and useless, Giles left them to it and went into the kitchen.

Tara had set the coffeemaker percolating, and the kettle was about to boil. Four mugs sat on the counter, ready to be filled. There was nothing left for Giles to do.

He sat down at the breakfast bar, gratefully accepting the tea Tara pressed into his hands a few seconds later. When she went into the dining room with drinks for Spike and Buffy, Giles just let the sound of their voices wash over him.

Perhaps it  _was_  time he left. He wasn’t needed here. Not really. And there was so much more he could do for Buffy in England.

He snapped out of his brown study when he realised that what he was listening to was  _Spike_  digging into Buffy’s shoulder to remove the fangs. And it wasn’t hurting him just as much as it was hurting her. That could only mean  _the chip wasn’t firing_.

Frozen, Giles heard Buffy haltingly ask Tara to help her get herself into a bath. When the girls started upstairs, Spike came back into the kitchen and started washing the blood –  _Buffy’s blood_  – from his hands.

“Your chip didn’t go off,” Giles said.

Spike stopped and slowly turned towards him.  _Well that’s bloody torn it – gonna have to tell him everythin’ now, even if she doesn’t want to._

Giles stood up, hands scrambling for the stake left lying on the counter.

Spike backed away from him slowly, hands out. “Now, now, Rupert. Let’s not do anythin’ rash.”

“You’re – dear Lord, you – are you killing again?”

“No! It’s just Buffy – I swear. Since she came back.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Lightning quick, Spike darted in and punched Giles in the face. Then he staggered back against the counter, swearing and holding his head.

Giles gingerly rolled his neck. “You could be faking,” he said dubiously. But he was no longer holding the stake in position to strike.

Spike looked up. “Why the bloody hell would I want to do that?”

_His eyes weren’t that bloodshot before throwing that punch. Were they?_

Giles shrugged, putting down the stake and lightly brushing his fingers over the lump he could feel forming on his cheek. “You needn’t have hit me quite so hard.”

Spike rolled his eyes, wincing at the movement. “Still conscious, aren’t you?”

Giles harrumphed. Sounding more subdued, he asked, “Are you … are you certain about this?”

“Course I’m bloody not!” Spike exclaimed. “How could I be? Might’ve just stopped working on women, for all I know.”

“I find that highly unlikely.”

Spike sighed. “Doesn’t react at all to Buffy. Certain of that much.”

“How?” Giles asked coldly, accusingly.

Spike shifted uncomfortably. “Re-set some broken fingers … knocked her out. Plus this, tonight.”

“What were you – no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Does  _she_  know?”

“Haven’t talked about it.” He glared at Giles. “Reckoned the last thing she needed was more reason to be terrified there’s somethin’ wrong with her. Already half-convinced she’s not properly human anymore.”

Giles sat down abruptly. After a few seconds, he said, “I do so wish you’d told me that before.”

Spike went very, very still. “What did you say to her?”

“I may, perhaps, have suggested to her the possibility that she, er, that she came back wrong.”

Spike groaned. “Wish I’d hit you harder now.”

“How was I to know?” Giles snapped.

Spike snorted. “Got a brain in your head, haven’t you? What would  _you_  think if you came back from the dead stronger an’ faster an’ going into a soddin’ fugue state that makes you bite the ears off your enemies!”

Now Giles went still. “What did she do to the M’Fashnik, Spike?”

Spike groaned again, even louder than before. “Buggerin’ FUCK!”

“What did she  _do_?”

“Beat his head to mush,” Spike said sullenly. “Like a sack of mud, it was.”

Giles blanched. “What else has she done?”

“Tried to kill me a couple times.”

“Not overly concerned with that right now. What else?”

Spike sighed. “Took out a nest of ten, easy as pie. No stake.” He paused. “Did somethin’ similar tonight. Then there’s the hellions.”

“How many?”

“All of ‘em. Tried to help – that was one of the times she tried to kill me.”

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “And that’s aside from the attempt,” he stared down a squirming Spike, “ _attempts_ , rather, at harming Dawn?”

“There’s  _nothin’ wrong with her_ ,” Spike said coldly.

“Pretty to think so,” Giles snapped. Then he sighed. “While this is … unsettling, it does not impact overly-much on my initial decision: I must go back to England and get expert help.” He put his glasses back on and blinked a few times. “I am reluctant to do that until we have settled the limits – or rather, lack thereof – to your chip.”

Spike straightened. “Look, reckon I know someone can check out the chip. Tell us what’s what.”

Giles frowned. “You’ve found an Initiative doctor?”

Spike laughed. “Fuck, no! Was thinking of Warren Mears.”

Giles blinked a few times. “Do you know, that’s actually quite a good idea.”


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Just another Saturday night, part 3_

Tara had started panicking almost as soon as Buffy asked for help with bath-related activities: seeing her straight female friends’ naked parts hadn’t generally gone so well for her in the past. And even though it had ultimately got her a private dorm room, The Incident In Freshman Year had been beyond brutal.

But to Tara’s great relief, Buffy seemed way more bothered by needing help in the first place than about who was giving it. By the time she was safely in the bath (and covered by several strategically-placed washcloths), Tara was beginning to feel that special  _something_  Willow had described so many times – how helping Buffy made you feel like maybe you were a better person.

Then she oh-so-casually asked Tara to tell Spike that he’d left clothes on the bathroom floor again. All of a sudden, Tara’s brain processed the fact that Buffy had carried very definitely  _black_  things into the bathroom, and yet neither her pyjamas nor her towel had any black in them. At all. Whatsoever. And the pile of equally definitely black clothes heaped on the floor had not been there when Tara had brushed her teeth.

Tara stammered out “Sure,” before escaping to the safety of the hallway. She couldn’t understand why Buffy was still trying so hard to keep up the pretence: there was no way anyone living in the house could miss that Spike had moved into her room. But despite that, it didn’t really surprise her: the tried and tested Scooby way was to pretend everything was fine right up until it exploded in your face. Tara leant back against the wall, staring through the open doorway to her bedroom with its too-big bed, wishing the drama could be just a little less sleep-depriving.

Suddenly, she could hear Spike, angry and shouting from downstairs.  _More drama._

“You got a bondage fetish or somethin’? Sun’s up! What could I  _possibly_  do?”

Tara’s stomach started churning. She was a little afraid of Spike when Dawn wasn’t around to keep him calm: his emotions were always so …  _big_. They filled the house. She decided to escape to the library as soon as she could. It was very definitely morning now, and midterms were only a week away.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Ever since she’d started working at the Magic Box, Xander’s Sundays had been reserved exclusively for Anya. She was unshakable in her refusal to share him with Willow or Buffy on the only day they both had off – written out a contract and everything, complete with a special clause for apocalypses and funerals. He’d thought it was kinda weird and overly clingy when she’d first brought it up, but in the end he’d come to appreciate their Sundays together. They felt decadent and special, even if they only ended up doing errands and watching TV. It was such a cosmic kick in the teeth that Sunday was their last day in the apartment.

And not even a whole day, either. Neither of them had managed to sleep much, so by 8.00 they’d finished the last of the cleaning and, minutes later, the last three boxes had been divided between Xander’s car and Anya’s backpack. Then they closed and locked the door and took their keys off their rings so Anya could put them into her change purse, ready to give to Giles the next time she saw him.

As Anya snapped her purse shut with a resounding click, Xander realised that she’d never again yell at him for forgetting to clean the dust from the back of the toilet stem. It made him want to laugh and cry at the same time. “So….” he said. “Guess this is it, huh?”

“Guess so.” Anya said shortly, wishing this part were over. She wasn’t sure that she understood goodbyes, but she knew that they hurt.

Xander suddenly stiffened – with that look he got when either he really needed to pee, or he was about to say something important. Anya’s traitorous heart hoped he was about to take it all back – tell her that he couldn’t bear to live without her and this had all been a terrible mistake.

“Uh, before I forget, there might be a thing on Tuesday … for Tara’s birthday?”

Anya’s face hardened. “So?”

“Did you wanna go?”

“Is there a post-break-up  _dating_  ritual as well? Because I’ve never heard of—”

Xander laughed, high-pitched and nervous. “There is not enough ‘no’ in the world to fully express the extreme no-ness that is the answer to that question. It’s just, I know Willow’s gonna go, and she kinda asked me if I could be there for moral support, and—”

“Tara’s not going to invite me, Xander,” she snapped.

He deflated slightly. “Look, all I know is that Tara told Willow she wanted to go somewhere she could drink legally. I figure that means it’s gonna be somewhere a bit … a bit more grown up than the Bronze, and maybe you’d like that. I don’t … I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone.”

Anya sighed. “I  _am_  alone, Xander. That’s what ‘not being together anymore’ means.”

“You don’t need to be! I mean, Giles made it  _very_ clear whose side he’s on.” Lips twisting slightly in distaste, he added, “And Mr Short, Pale and Bitey’s always hated my guts.”

She rolled her eyes. “They’re too busy being on  _Buffy’s_  side to even know I have one.”

Xander looked sceptical. “Giles took the time to read me the riot act yesterday.” He twitched in memory. “And he kept in touch with you, after he left. He never spoke to the rest of us. Not once. That’s gotta count for something.”

Anya frowned. “I won’t go if it’s just you and Willow and Buffy. But … if it’s more people? And if it’s somewhere good, like the cocktail lounge at the Grand?”

They shared a smile.

“Maybe then.”

Xander’s smile broadened. With his third paycheque – the first one he could safely blow without having to worry about food or rent – they’d splurged on good fake IDs and gone to the Grand Hotel and drunk eight-dollar cocktails with silly names and Anya had tried to teach him to Charleston. It had been one of their few truly successful dates.

“That’s a really good idea,” he said. “I’ll suggest it to Tara.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Thankfully, Buffy didn’t dawdle in the bath. It was only as Tara was halfway down the stairs that she realised the implications of what all she now had to tell Spike – and in front of Mr Giles, too. Tara made sure to step firmly on the creaky step, and reluctantly continued down to the kitchen. Man and vampire both were staring anxiously at the door by the time she came through it.

“She alright?” Spike asked, just as Giles said, “Is Buffy well?”

Tara nodded, thoroughly uncomfortable, then turned to Spike. “She said that you, um, that you left your clothes in the b-b-bathroom?”

There was a painfully long moment of silence while everyone very carefully avoided eye contact.

“She asked me to bring her some sleepy tea, a-and ice p-packs,” Tara continued quietly. “So, um, I’m just gonna d-do that.” Tara inched into the kitchen and started pulling out ingredients.

To her surprise, Spike didn’t get angry, he just slumped back against the counter, looking as if his strings had been cut.

Giles looked thoughtful. “That tea wouldn't work on vampires, would it?” he asked

“Might need to up the d-dose, b-but it should,” Tara answered slowly, looking up from her preparations. “Why?”

“Spike’s chip is no longer functioning properly,” Giles said grimly.

Tara froze rigid, staring over at Spike while her stomach started churning even more violently. He stared right back, making her feel even more exposed and vulnerable.

“Fine,” he snarled, finally breaking eye contact and slumping down even further.

Tara felt a flash of guilt at his reaction. She had never expected him to look so …  _was he disappointed?_

With a look that seemed almost compassionate, Giles said, “It’s better this way. You must see that.”

“‘M takin’ the bed with the lock on the door,” Spike said flatly, gesturing towards the basement. Then, sneeringly: “For Brutus is an honourable man.”

“Self-important pillock,” Giles muttered under his breath, which seemed to perk Spike up a bit. Turning to Tara, he asked, “How long will it last?”

She shrugged uncertainly. “A normal d-dose lasts about ten hours, so if I make d-double….” Her eyes darted over towards Spike. “At least five hours, if it’s like alcohol?”

“An’ if it isn’t, could be out for twenty,” Spike said darkly. “Bloody hate magic.”

Tara wished for the floor to open and swallow her up.

“If you truly don’t want to drink it,” Giles said testily, “I can still get the chains.”

Spike sighed. “You ever gonna trust me?” He missed the look passing between Giles and Tara.

Squeezing her hands into tight fists and wishing she could close her eyes as well, she said, “Change needs time.”

Another uneasy silence settled over the kitchen while Tara finished making the tea.

As soon as she had finished, Spike snatched up his mug of extra-strength and stalked off towards the basement, stiff-backed and sullen. Even though Tara was mostly expecting it, she couldn’t help flinching when he slammed the door shut behind him.

Giles leaned across the kitchen sink to open the blinds. It was a beautiful sunny morning.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Dawn woke up early – for her – a little before noon. Still half-asleep, she unbarred her door and padded into the bathroom, where she saw Spike’s new sweats and a clean-ish t-shirt dumped on the floor. They definitely hadn’t been there when Dawn had gone to bed and it wasn’t like Spike to leave his clothes lying around. She went straight to Buffy’s room and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she opened it and stepped in, one hand ostentatiously over her eyes to give any naked people time to cover up.

Peeking through her fingers, she saw soundly-sleeping Buffy and no Spike.

“Buffy?” Dawn called out hesitantly. When there was no reaction, she stepped closer to the bed. “Buffy?” She said it louder this time, but still nothing. Weird that Buffy wasn’t waking up – she was a super-light sleeper normally. Dawn reached out and gently touched her shoulder. No reaction. Dawn prodded a little harder. Still nothing.

That was when she started to panic.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

An ear-shattering wail propelled Giles to wakefulness.  _Dawn._  Only just barely managing to untangle his feet from the throw, he scrambled for the weapons trunk, then ran for the basement, certain he was going to find someone dead or dying and then—

No blood or carnage; just a girl frantically trying to shake a vampire awake.

“What did you  _do_  to them?” Dawn screeched accusingly, voice high and panicked and thick with tears. As he continued down the stairs, she scrambled across Spike’s body and stood menacingly between Giles and the bed.

The intensity of his relief to find Dawn whole and unharmed was entirely unexpected. Giles sat down gingerly at the bottom of the stairs, placing the sword carefully on the floor beside him. Then, in his best reasonable voice, he explained that Spike’s chip was no longer working, and how magically-induced sleep was preferable to chains.

“And Buffy?” Dawn’s mind flashed to blank-Buffy with the pipe in the basement like some kind of demented Clue character. “Is she – did she do something?” She wiped angrily at her nose, still streaming snot like a stupid little kid’s.

“No,” Giles said calmly. “Buffy simply asked Tara to make her something to help her sleep.” He paused. “I understand it is, er, useful for her nightmares.”

Dawn relaxed slightly. “When will they wake up?”

“Buffy should be up in time for dinner. Spike could wake up in…” Giles checked his watch, “about an hour, or anytime up until the early hours tomorrow morning.”

Dawn tensed up again, almost vibrating with emotion. “You don’t know?”

Giles shrugged. “Tara is not certain how the tea will react to a vampire constitution. To all intents and purposes, they took sleeping pills. There is nothing bad or dangerous in it.” Seing the opportunity to drive home a lesson, he continued: “Spike, on the other hand….”

“Not to  _me_!” Dawn shouted, suddenly angry again.

“He’s a vicious killer.”

“ _Used_  to be,” Dawn said mulishly. “He … he works for you now! You and Anya!”

Giles opened his mouth and closed it again, feeling the conversation escaping him. It had never occurred to him that Dawn would try to defend a chipless Spike. In retrospect, that had perhaps been unwise…. “Do you know what he does?”

“It’s in the shop, right?” Dawn said with a nonchalant shrug. “Lifting boxes or something lame like that.”

“Hardly,” Giles snorted.

Her stomach lurched. She’d been so angry when he’d said he was working for Anya. She’d just assumed it was one more thing he was doing for Buffy.

“He carves up demons for parts,” Giles snapped. “Just like the Initiative.”

Dawn flinched. She’d always known Spike sometimes did …  _things_. Jobs. But he never told her about them. She sat down on the edge of the bed, inching backwards until she could feel his still form against her back. “Well if  _you’re_  willing to sell their parts, they must’ve needed killing.”

Giles resisted rolling his eyes. But really, this was an argument for Anya; neither a teenager nor a vampire was in a position to act as any kind of moral arbiter. “I understand that he’s – that you care for him, Dawn. Truly I do. But he is not safe to be around if his chip isn’t working.”

“What are you so afraid he’s gonna do?”

Giles sighed. “I don’t believe he would intentionally hurt you or Buffy. Not immediately, at any rate.”

Dawn waited expectantly for the other shoe to drop.

“But what happens after a few months of feeding off of people again?”

“He wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t he? He is a vampire, Dawn. It’s in his nature to hunt, and I do not believe that he, or any other creature, is capable of denying its nature indefinitely. No matter how much he may want to. And once he’s started feeding off of, er, his natural prey, he will find it difficult to distinguish between friend and … and lunch.”

“Do you really think if he didn’t have the chip anymore that he’d just go back to how he was before? Like the last two years never happened?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. Or what you hope. I am unwilling to gamble with the lives of the people living in this house.”

Dawn’s eyes blazed. “This isn’t your house,  _Mr Giles_. You’re not even family.”

He flinched.

“You know, I don’t even get where you had the right to make any decisions at all!”

“Dawn—”

“You  _left_. You can’t just come back here and expect us to do whatever you say. You have no right!”

Giles pressed his lips together, waiting for the tirade to end. Buffy had taught him it was better this way.

“And I don’t  _hope_ ,” Dawn shrilled. “I  _trust_  him. And I’m not stupid! I know he does bad st–  _did_  bad stuff. But so have you! I heard about your whole Igor thing, with the demonic body snatching.”

“Eyghon,” Giles corrected despite himself.

“Whatever.” Dawn paused for breath. “And he hasn’t done anything yet! Why can’t you just trust him until he gives you a reason not to?”

“He has already tried to hide the malfunction of his chip,” Giles said. “That hardly inspires confidence.”

“Wait-wait-wait,” Dawn held up one hand. “This isn’t just a last night thing?”

Giles shook his head. “He mentioned re-setting Buffy’s fingers … they were still taped up when I arrived.”

A wide grin split across Dawn’s face. “Oh my god. How dumb are you?”

Giles frowned.

“It’s  _Buffy_!” Dawn said. “The chip just doesn’t work on Buffy.” Realising the wider implications of what she’d just said, the smile slipped from her face, leaving it horror-stricken. “It’s  _just_   _Buffy_ …. Does that mean she’s—”

“We don’t know that it’s just Buffy,” Giles said quickly, suddenly wishing he’d never brought this up.

“Yes we do!” All the light died in Dawn’s eyes. “When he did that thing – when he nearly died – half the injuries were from his chip. A-and that first assassin made it go off. But the second one wasn’t human and Spike said that meant he could fight it!”

“I have seen what appeared to be his chip firing several times myself,” Giles said slowly. “He could still be faking it.”

A withering look peeked through the despair. “I’ve seen him play poker. He’s not faking.”

“How do you-?” He stopped, certain he didn’t actually want to know.

“What’s wrong with Buffy?” Dawn’s voice was small and unsteady.

“Buffy is fine.” Giles impressed himself with the certainty in his voice.

“Please don’t just keep pretending everything’s okay when it really isn’t.” Dawn whined, the tears threatening to return. “Is it – is she a demon now? Did something happen in the hell dimension to make her lose her soul?”

Giles was at a complete loss as to what to say. Perversely, he found himself wishing Spike were awake.

“Whatever’s wrong with her is my fault,” Dawn continued softly. “I have a right to know.”

Giles couldn’t help his sharp intake of breath, but he didn’t think Dawn had noticed it. Feeling almost as if acting outside of his body, he got up from the steps and crouched beside the bed so their eyes were level. “It was not your fault.” He thought he’d choke on the words, but he didn’t. To his great surprise, he sounded clear and strong and commanding.

Dawn let out a faint whimper. No one but Spike had ever said it to her. And this was  _Giles_.

“Buffy  _chose_  to sacrifice her life for yours,” he continued, his throat constricting around the words, making him sound hoarse. “She swore to me that if you died, she would give it all up. That the world wouldn’t be worth saving anymore without you in it.”

“R-really?” Dawn lost the fight against the tears.

“Really.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

Giles straightened – his knees no longer supported extended crouching. “I can’t be certain. Not yet. There are books … experts in England I need to consult.” He went to sit down again on the steps.

Dawn wrapped her arms around herself, pushing back harder against Spike and trying to keep from shaking. “Can you fix her?”

“It rather depends on whether the problems are magical or psychological,” Giles said slowly. “Magical ones may be easily fixed, or not at all. Psychological ones will take time and effort on her part. There is almost certainly a mixture of both.”

Dawn looked terrified. “Why couldn’t you have just lied to me?”

He laughed. “Your – Buffy asked me to lie to her once.”

“What did you say?”

“That the world was divided clearly and visibly into good and evil, and that good would always triumph. That no one would ever die and we’d all live happily ever after.”

She snorted. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Giles felt a sudden burst of affection for her, something he hadn’t felt for a very long time.

Dawn stared down at Spike, who looked more dead than asleep. “Can you please just let me keep them? Please?” She swallowed audibly, trying so hard to stop her tears. “I don’t think I can stand to lose anyone else.”

“As soon as Spike is awake, he and I are going to find out what’s happening with his chip. And then we’ll … we’ll see.”


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Spike and Giles go on an adventure_

Spike was on top of the world. Tara’s concoction had turned out to be a half-decent hangover cure and Dawn had inexplicably stopped being mad at him. She was a sulker, usually – took days and days to get over anything – but she’d been right solicitous from the moment he’d opened his eyes. And, even more miraculous, she’d somehow charmed Giles into retrieving his abandoned car and sorting out a new pair of boots. Boots’d been paid for with his own money, courtesy of Dawn’s sticky fingers, and it had taken absolute bloody ages to readjust the seat and mirrors after Giles messed about with them, but still. All Spike had to do now was convince the cynical sod his chip still worked, and everything would be golden.

Well,  _almost_  everything, anyway.

He parked the car.

“This is it?” Giles asked dubiously, staring out the window of Spike’s –  _Spike’s!_  – painfully suburban SUV at the even more painfully suburban homes surrounding them. They all had perfectly coiffed gardens and most of them sported lawn gnomes.

Spike gave him a quizzical look. “What were you expectin’? Boy builds robots. Hardly demon central.”

“Something marginally less prosaic?” Giles pursed his lips. “A bunker, perhaps? Or an abandoned factory? And how do you know he’s still living here? Surely, this is his parents’ house.”

Spike shrugged. “Mum’ll know.” He grinned. “Right cordial, she is. Offered me a slice of cake and a cuppa last time.”

Giles sighed. He struggled to understand, sometimes, how anyone survived more than a week in Sunnydale. “So what’s your plan?”

“Plan?” Spike looked genuinely confused.

“Of course you don’t have a plan,” Giles groaned. “What was I thinking?”

Giles wasn’t sure quite how he managed it, but with a twitch of his shoulders, Spike could say ‘you’re an idiot’ louder than any words.

“Slam open the door,” Spike said, as if speaking to a small child, “then threaten to break body parts until the little shit pisses himself in terror and agrees to examine my head. The End.”

Giles looked shocked. “He doesn’t  _know_?”

Spike snorted. “Who would tell him?”

It was a fair point. “You’re taking an awful risk.”

“Worried ‘bout little old me, Rupes? ‘M touched.”

“On second thought….”

“Oi!”

“So where do I fit into this ‘plan’?” Giles asked, feeling the imminent onset of a headache.

Spike arched one eyebrow. “You don’t.”

Giles sighed.

“You’re a librarian, for fuck’s sake!”

“I’m a good deal better than a bloody librarian!” Giles barked.

“Then stop dressin’ like one!”

“Why am I even here?” Giles had meant to say it under his breath, but … vampire.

“You didn’ trust me not to lie ‘bout the results,” Spike snapped. “If you’ll recall.”

Giles hrmmed noncommittally. “And what happens if Warren finds out what the chip does? Either before or after he’s checked it?”

Spike shrugged. “Jump off that bridge when we come to it, shall we?”

Giles just stared at him. Surely,  _surely_ , recklessness such as this ought to have gotten him killed decades ago.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow was shocked when she heard her father calling out that he was home. It felt like only minutes had passed since her parents had left for work. But seeing as how his return meant it was probably long past seven by now, she’d pretty much lost the day.

_Oops?_

It was all Empedocles’ fault. His theories on how Love and Strife controlled the elements were just fascinating. Not hugely practical – magic during that period was mostly passed down orally, so the written stuff was pretty much philosophical underpinnings – but it was totally changing the way Willow thought about elemental spells. She’d always believed that they called on either the earth itself or some kind of earth deity like Gaia. But Empedocles seemed to think that there was another route: one that didn’t take anything but the caster’s emotions to power it. She wished there was a professional journal for witches. She’d love to get stuck into researching and writing a paper on internal versus external sources of power for spells. She’d be able to do important, meaningful work again; computers just felt so pointless these days.

Stretching her sore back muscles and rubbing at her eyes, Willow reluctantly put down Empedocles and started leafing through the other books she’d thought might have what she needed. Her dad would call her down for dinner soon, and Willow wanted to feel like she’d actually accomplished something today.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles watched as Spike kicked at the basement door of the Mears house. Repeatedly. To no avail.

 _Reinforced?_  Must be something impressive to keep out a vampire. So the boy was stupid enough not to revoke an invitation, but not quite so stupid as to make it easy to brute force a way in. Given his previous experience with recalcitrant super-strong robots, that was perhaps to be expected.

Curtains were starting to twitch all along the street. Only a matter of time before someone rang the police. Even in Sunnydale.

Annoyed, Giles decided to get out and help. He glanced longingly at the crossbow lying across the back seat, but since he wasn’t actually willing to shoot Warren with it, he couldn’t justify taking it.

Spike had stopped throwing himself at the door by the time Giles arrived.

“Thought you were gonna stay in the car?” Spike said, panting a little.

Giles held up a set of lock picks.

“Wondered what happened to those,” Spike grunted.

“I took them off of Dawn,” Giles said coldly.

Spike reached for his tools, but Giles dodged his outstretched hand and bent down to start working on the lock himself.

“What the—”

The lock was picked. Spike blinked unbelievingly.

“Now,” Giles said smugly, holding the door open. “Wasn’t that rather easier?”

Spike brushed past, lips pressed into a tight line, then let out a low whistle as he took in the room. “‘S like a cross between Hugh Hefner’s pad and an episode of  _Star Trek_.” Then he saw the shelves filled with toys and memorabilia. “Or not.”

Giles was staring open-mouthed at the white board off to one side sporting a ‘To Do’ list. “There’s not even any gold in Fort Knox,” he muttered. “Why on earth would anyone want to  _miniaturise_  it?”

Spike noticed what Giles was looking at. “ _That’s_  what you find odd? I wanna know what the hell the ‘Gorilla Thing’ is.”

They kept staring.

“On second thought,” Spike muttered, “maybe I don’t.” He started wandering around the room, picking things up and putting them down again. “Plasma flat screen,” he whispered, awestruck, reaching out to stroke a TV that might actually be bigger than him.

Giles rolled his eyes. He was mentally measuring the room against the size of the house. There had to be more rooms. Possibly some closet space as well…. But there didn’t appear to be any doors. He began examining the walls.

Spike was staring at a messy collation of desktops and laptops and trying to convince himself that he could figure out how they worked if he just kept pressing buttons. Windows was supposed to be all intuitive now, wasn’t it? That’s what the adverts said…. He picked up a keyboard and watched as one of the screens came to life.

“Aha!” Giles shouted, and swung open a knob-less door camouflaged to look like the rest of the wall.

 _Linux? What the fuck’s_ Linux _?_

Giles let out a noise that, coming from anyone else, might have been charitably described as a girlish scream.

Spike dropped the keyboard like a hot potato and ran to where Giles was standing open-mouthed outside what appeared to be a broom closet.

Inside was the Buffy-bot.

The bot’s eyes popped open in something like pleased surprise. “Guyles!”

“Bugger me,” Spike breathed.

She squinted at him. “Who are you?”

Spike started laughing. He’d begged and pleaded with Willow to make it forget him for  _months_. He should’ve just taken it back to Warren.

“Shut up, Spike!” Giles snapped.

To their mutual surprise, he did.

“Buffy?” Giles asked hesitantly.

“Yes!” the bot said happily. “You’re my Watcher; you’re smart but lacking in personality.”

“Quite.” Giles sat down on an occasional table. Spike was frozen in place.

The bot stepped out from the closet. “Have you found more demons for me to rob and kill?”

“Rob and-? Buffy, er, perhaps you could remind me of your, ah, mission?”

She nodded happily, like a dog about to perform a trick. “It’s my sacred duty to go out and patrol every night for demons, and if they look like they’re rich, I take their money before I slay them.”

Spike let out another startled laugh; it had an edge of hysteria to it.

“I also protect my masters from anything that tries to hurt them.” She switched her focus to Spike, eyes narrowing. “You’re a vampire. Are you here to hurt my masters?”

“No, he’s not,” Giles said sharply. “Who are your masters?”

“Warren and Jonathan and Andrew,” the bot breathed reverently. “They’re so smart and tall.”

Spike mouthed “Tall?” incredulously towards Giles.

Giles coughed “Sinister attraction,” into his hand.

Spike scowled.

Turning back to the bot, Giles said, “So, er, Mears, and  … what are the full names of the others?”

“Jonathan Levinson—”

“I never thought that Levinson boy  _had_  any friends,” Giles said, surprised.

“Not without magicking ‘em into existence anyway,” Spike grumbled, still deeply discomfited by the entire situation.  

The bot shot him a glare. “You’re mean. I don’t like you.” She turned back to Giles. “And Andrew Wells.”

Giles frowned. “ _Andrew_  Wells? I remember a Tucker: hellhounds at the, er, the spring fling?”

“They’re brothers,” the bot supplied happily. “Andrew knows all about demons.” She paused. “But not as much as you, Guyles. Your books are your only friends.”

Giles shot Spike a venomous look. “I blame you for this,” he hissed. “Entirely.”

“Hey now,  _I_  wanted it destroyed soon’s Buffy—”

The bot had cocked her head and was watching him; suddenly, he knew what gazelles must feel like.

“Went away?” Spike suggested carefully, taking a tentative step back. The first time Willow had insisted on sending  _it_  out with him, it had all gotten a bit much and he’d tried to destroy it. But it had been created to be stronger than him – just like her. There had been a lot of “accidents” after that, in which lives wires and water had figured heavily.

The bot relaxed her gaze, satisfied for the moment.

“Willow was the one insistin’ we keep it,” Spike said quietly.

“Why on earth would she do that?”

“Made it easier to pretend the Slayer was still … here. Physical presence and whatnot.”

It made a sort of sense.

Giles turned back to the bot. “You, er, you live here?”

“I live at 1630 Revello Drive.” The bot blinked slowly. “But I stay here to better service my masters.”

“Of course you do,” Giles sighed. “Perhaps, er, perhaps you should go back home now?”

The bot’s whole body lit up with her smile, then she turned around and went back into the closet, shutting the door behind her.

There was a moment of silence as Giles and Spike stared at the wall, its door rendered invisible again.

“That really happened, right?” Spike asked.

“If you mean that your obscene sexbot is currently being used as a means of income by … by social rejects with a science fiction obsession, then yes, Spike. Yes it really did happen.” He stood up and went to re-open the hidden door.

The bot’s eyes blinked open in pleased surprise. “Guyles!”

“Buffy,” Giles said softly.

“Have you found more demons for me to rob and kill?”

Just as Giles was about to speak, Spike shoved him unceremoniously against the bot and into the closet, slamming the door behind them. The bot’s eyes had closed as soon as the door shut. Giles assumed it was some sort of programmed response.

“Robot-boy!” Spike’s voice called out gaily from the other side of the door.

Giles’ righteous indignation vanished. Resigned to stay where he was for the time being, he leaned back against the door as much as he could and tried very hard not to put his hands anywhere.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Willow finally hit the jackpot with the  _Elementals Primer for the Experienced Practitioner_. It was something she’d bought as part of a job lot at an estate sale back when she was still hoping to find resurrection spells that didn’t require Vino de Madre, but it turned out to have a whole chapter on failsafes for big magicks … and, even better, something very like the spell Tara had used.

Same ingredients … cosmic alarm clock …  _blah blah_  … one person guaranteed unaffected. Willow frowned, re-reading one particular passage:

_The link will feel a prickling, akin to electricity in the air during a storm, as the magicks try, and fail, to take effect._

Willow frowned. It was … odd. Why would Giles’ pet coven choose something like this? It was no kind of alternative to a full binding spell. It would only protect Tara, and it heavily implied she wouldn’t even feel anything if a spell wasn’t directed at her. And no matter where the magic was directed, if something on the scale of major earth magicks only made an itty-bitty tingly feeling, anything smaller probably wouldn’t even be noticed.

Willow slumped back against her chair. She just couldn’t understand why they’d choose that spell.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Warren’s entire life flashed before his eyes, and it was sad. Sad and pathetic. He couldn’t die before he got out of his mom’s basement! He’d been drafting blueprints for an  _island hideout_. Why couldn’t he have just agreed to help install the cameras? Then none of this would be happening.

“Uh, h-hi Spike,” he stammered. Warren looked around frantically for something he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing. All his weapons were locked away to keep Andrew from touching them, and he had no idea how to use any of the magical ones. His so-called perfect bodyguard was powered down in the closet, unable to react to anything until he could get the door open again. And between him and that door was a very hungry-looking vampire. Warren briefly wondered if he could somehow trick Spike into opening the closet – he wasn’t the brightest bulb, after all – but then Warren’s back was against the wall and Spike was looming over him and growling and the constructive thinking part of his brain mostly started gibbering “Run! Run, you fool!” loud enough to drown out everything else.

“D-did my mom let you in again?” Warren only just managed not to whimper.  _Please don’t have eaten my mom. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease._

Spike’s grin got a little bit wider and a lot more threatening. “Need you to look at my chip.”

Warren gulped. “It that a euphemism?” he squeaked.

Inside the closet, Giles rolled his eyes.

Spike frowned, straightening up. “In my  _head_. The chip in my head.”

Warren relaxed, marginally. Then Spike took an actual step back, which made Warren relax so much he was momentarily worried about voiding. But the step had taken Spike out of direct line of the closet door, so Warren started edging further into the room, towards the bot and safety.

Spike stared at him until he stopped.

“Why should I help you, huh?” Warren asked, hesitantly placing his hands on his hips and thrusting out his chest, trying for confident and in control.

Spike cast a quick look around the room. “You got a lot of collectibles here, don’t you?”

Warren’s face went ashen.

Spike picked up a figurine from a nearby shelf. “Examine my chip or Vader here gets it.” He started pulling and prodding at the toy, including the piece of flimsy plastic sticking out of its arm.

“No!” Warren shouted, arms outstretched. “Not  _that_  Vader.”

Spike grinned wolfishly.

“Okay, okay. Chill. Let’s all just be cool. We can do that, right?” He took a few deep breaths. “You can still make it right. You know you don’t want to do this.”

“I want answers, nimrod.” Spike started tossing the toy from one hand to another. He was making no effort to protect its fragile arm. “Tick tock.”

“Right, right. Of course. But, you don't wanna hurt Vader. ‘Cause, man, you're not coming back from that. You don't do that and walk away.”

“That right?” Spike growled. “Let's find out.”

Warren started into cold, unfeeling eyes. Eyes that could not possibly comprehend the magnitude of destroying a mint condition 1978 telescoping lightsaber Darth Vader that Warren had spent  _days_  writing a special eBay-sniper to acquire. Spike would break the telescoping mechanism. No question. Maybe even worse. He was just that evil.

“I help you, you owe me one,” Warren said. “It’ll be a deal. And then later—”

“No,” Spike said firmly. “You help me, you get to keep your … toy … in one piece.”

Warren gulped again. It had totally been a euphemism. He knew it.

Spike stepped in a little closer, drinking in the heady scent of fear It was fun, threatening a squidgy little meat sack again. Even if it was only by proxy. “That’s the deal. Deal?”

“Deal,” Warren breathed.

“Let’s get on with it, then.” Spike said.

Warren nodded. He considered a mad dash for the closet door, but Spike was back to standing directly in front of it. It was almost like he knew, which he couldn’t possibly, or Warren would probably be dead by now. Warren crossed to the other side of the room and unlocked the second hidden door – the one that led to his lab.

From inside the closet, Giles heard a door opening, then closing, and then only the barest murmur of voices. If he wanted to hear what Warren told Spike about the chip, he needed to get out. He carefully put one hand behind his back, scrabbling for the latch. It meant pushing up against the bot’s chest. It felt disconcertingly lifelike. After far too long, he managed to release the latch and open the door.

Big, hazel eyes blinked open. “Guyles!”

“Shhhh,” Giles put a finger to his lips.

“Did you hear something?” Warren asked Spike, looking at the door.

“Crackle of breakin’ plastic?” Spike suggested blandly.

Warren turned back to him, scowling. “Lie still. If you move too much it’ll screw up the scan.”

While Warren waved a wanna-be tricorder over him, Spike stared at the ceiling and tried not to fidget. It had been years now since he’d even tried biting anyone. He shivered. Just the thought of it made him brace for pain.

 _Like Pavlov’s bloody dog_.

It could still turn out not be Buffy at all. Could be all women – some kind of hormone or pheromone thing. And while that sounded even more idiotic and  _Star Trek_  than all the junk in Warren’s little shrine to geekdom, the Initiative had always been a geek’s wet dream: the weak controlling the strong through superior tech.

“Okay, all done,” Warren said.

Spike sat up.

Warren turned back to the machine at the other end of the scanner. “Just gotta print some stuff off, and then I’ll be right with you.”

Spike left the room, only to walk straight into Giles. He flinched at a minor firing. Yep.  _Something_  definitely still worked.

The bot was grinning. “Be vewy, vewy quiet,” she whispered. “It’s wabbit season.”

Giles shrugged helplessly.

“Get out of here!” Spike hissed. “He’s gonna see you!”

 Giles’ eyes went flinty. “Not until I know the results.”

“Oh for the love of – fine! But bloody hide already!”

“Buffy,” Giles said gently. “What time do you normally start your, er, patrols?”

Suddenly the inner door to the main house opened. “Warren?” a voice called out. “Dinner’s ready!”

Warren came out of the lab, yelling, “Be up in a minute, Ma!” Then he saw Giles.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

“Bugger,” Giles said under his breath.

Then Warren noticed the bot. Jumping up and punching the air at his good luck, he shouted, “Kill him, Buffy!” It wouldn’t matter now if Spike didn’t like that he’d repossessed  _his_  Buffy-bot: she’d been designed to be able to beat him in a fight, the freak.

Her bubbly smile turned feral. Giles started backing away.

“Now, now, Buffy, you don’t want to hurt your Watcher, do you?”

“ _You’re_  Guyles?” Warren exclaimed incredulously. He started laughing. “Where’s the tweed, dude? From what he said, I always figured it was, y’know, surgically attached.”

“It’s  _Giles_ ,” Giles snapped.

The bot was now stalking him.

Spike dug into his pocket for Vader. “Forgettin’ somethin’ robot boy?”

Warren looked confused. “I thought you hated that guy.”

“Do,” Spike said seriously. “But you’re still gonna call it – her –  _it_  off.” He made the figurine’s arm wave at Warren. “Or Vader here gets it.”

“Buffy stop,” Warren said. A smile spread over his face. “Way I see it, we’re at a stalemate now. You give me back my Vader, and I let you and Guyles—”

“ _Giles_!”

“Whatever. I let you two go.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “What about my chip?”

Warren shrugged. “What’s that information worth to you?”

Spike vamped out. “What’re the contents of your veins worth to you?”

Giles winced. There was no way this was going to end well.

The bot suddenly switched focus to Spike. “You’re threatening my master. Also, evil. You need to die.” Then she was flying at him, brandishing a stake.

Spike tossed Vader to Giles, and only just managed to deflect the stake away from his heart. As he was blocking a frenzy of kicks and punches, Giles walked over to Warren.

“Mr Mears,” Giles said in his best teacher voice, “Hand over the printouts, and I will refrain from breaking your doll.”

Warren’s mouth opened and closed.

There was a crash as Spike flew through the air and into the table filled with computers. He sat up, dazed and shaking his head. Every single computer monitor was cracked and smoking.

Warren started whimpering.

“Do you have any money?” the bot asked Spike, cocking her head.

He launched himself at her with a growl.

“Mr Mears,” Giles snapped. “The printouts.”

“In the lab,” Warren said, still mesmerised by the damage Spike and the bot were doing to his beautiful, beautiful lair.

Giles went through to the lab, and tore off the sheaf of papers connected to an ancient dot-matrix printer.

“Thank you,” Giles said to a distracted and grieving Warren. “Spike! Time to go.”

Spike ducked the next punch, spun around, and ran for the outer door. The bot hared off after him into the night.

Giles followed at a more sedate pace, closing the door behind him, and returning to the car. As soon as he sat down, he realised Spike still had the keys.

After readjusting the seat and mirrors, Giles hotwired the car. He was pleasantly surprised at how easy it still was.

Sighing, he set off for Willow’s house. In the absence of further assistance from Warren, she was the only person he knew who would be capable of making sense of the one language he’d never been able to understand: technology.


	50. Giles and Willow duke it out

When Ira Rosenberg opened his front door, Giles found himself at a complete loss. The two men stared at each other for several long seconds until Ira, somewhat impatiently, finally asked: “Can I help you?”

Giles snapped to attention. “Oh, er, I’m here to s-see Willow.”

Ira frowned – puzzled rather than suspicious. “You’re a bit long in the tooth to be one of her tutees, aren’t you?”

“Willow hasn’t tutored since high school,” Giles said softly.

Ira rearranged his shoulders. “What did you say your name was?”

“Oh!” Giles held out his hand. “I’m Rupert Giles.”

“Ira Rosenberg.” Ira gave no indication he recognised the name. Releasing Giles’ hand, he said, “Just a minute,” before turning around and going upstairs. A few seconds later, he returned with a wary Willow, who gestured Giles inside.

Despite the palpable awkwardness, Giles felt a sudden burst of pride that no one had even come close to inviting him in. Willow had clearly managed to teach her parents _something_.

Another silence passed, excruciatingly slowly, while Giles and Willow looked at anything and everything but each other.

Finally noticing the tension, Ira peered at his daughter suspiciously: “Is this why you’re doing independent study now? Your mother told me you were through experimenting with inappropriate relationships.”

“Daddy!” Willow squawked.

Giles’ ears turned pink. “M-Mr R-Rosenberg—”

Ira waved one hand dismissively, reassured by their reactions and immediately losing interest again. “You talk.” He turned, calling out, “I’ll be in my office,” over his shoulder as he disappeared further into the house.

“Um,” Willow said, “so my dad’s kinda….”

“Quite,” Giles said.

“Did you want tea or something?” Willow asked brightly.

“Oh, yes please!” Giles said. “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

Willow guided him through a cold – almost clinical – hallway and into the family kitchen. It looked like it had never been used, despite a generous size and what looked like all the paraphernalia for a small restaurant. Watching her, Giles thought she seemed … lesser … here, in her parents’ home: younger and more fragile.

“How are you?” Giles asked carefully.

“Oh, I’m just dandy,” Willow responded, equally carefully. She still hadn’t met his eyes.

Giles tried to slip into a chair at the gleaming metal counter, but it was too upright and slick and he only just avoided falling straight out of it again.

Willow giggled, and the tension between them lessened a little. “Don’t even try to sit _there_!” With a nod towards a door leading off the kitchen, she added: “The TV room is better. My _bobeshi_ always made sure she had somewhere comfy to sit when she visited.”

“Right,” Giles said, clumsily extricating himself. He passed through the doorway to a closet of a room crammed with two overstuffed armchairs draped in bright crocheted blankets and a tiny TV set that still had rabbit ears and manual dials. It was the first part of the house Giles had seen that looked like someone actually lived in it.

As Giles was sinking gratefully into one of the chairs, the kettle clicked off, and he watched Willow make tea through the doorway. It was an exact mirror of his own movements when he did it. Had she learned that from him?

“Thank you,” he said, his tone warm for the first time.

A smile flickered across Willow’s face – weak, but genuine. “You’re welcome.” She passed him his tea and sat down in the armchair opposite, although she held herself as if she were in one of the kitchen chairs.

Just as the silence was approaching uncomfortable again, Willow spoke: “So why’d you come over here, anyway?” she asked finally, her voice as cold and clinical as the kitchen.

“I have need of your technical expertise,” Giles replied, straightening up and matching her tone.

Willow pushed down the desire to scream that he was the worst kind of hypocrite for asking her to hack something when he thought she was too irresponsible to practice magic.

“Spike’s chip may not be working any longer,” Giles said gravely.

Willow gasped, recoiling – in precisely the way Dawn had not.

“Is everyone okay?” she asked. “I mean, has he tried to—”

Giles shook his head quickly. “I am reasonably confident there is no immediate danger. But there are too many variables…. I need to _know_. We all do.”

Willow nodded, in full agreement. Any tension between them was immediately gone: this was saving-the-world stuff, and that took precedence over everything else.

“We’ve also found the bot.”

“Where was she?”

“Warren Mears has, er, reclaimed her.” Giles’ lips curled in distaste. “He’s been sending her out to rob and kill demons as a money-making scheme.”

Willow’s mouth fell open. “But that’s just so … so … I mean, sex bot and all. It’s … it’s almost a let-down?”

Giles’ lips twitched despite himself. “It’s not funny.”

The tension lessened even more; it felt almost like old times.

Giles opened his jacket to pull out the sheaf of papers he’d liberated from Warren. “We scanned Spike’s brain – well, at least I believe that’s what happened. But at any rate, I’ve got the results – here,” he passed them over to Willow. “It’s just, er….” Giles trailed off. “I have absolutely no idea what any of it means.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

As soon as Giles and Spike left, Dawn had gone upstairs to watch Buffy sleep. In her head, she was pretty sure there wasn’t anything really-really wrong – Spike had woken up just fine, and everyone had sworn up and down Buffy’d had a much smaller dose than him. But she couldn’t quite stop herself from imagining that Buffy might never wake up again and for the next however-many years it would be just like all the nights she’d crept into her dead sister’s room and slept next to the bot, pretending with everything she had in her that Buffy would wake up and be alive again.

Dawn had brought the book she was reading for English – assuming she’d get bored just sitting there – but it was surprisingly compelling just listening to Buffy breathing; watching her chest rise and fall like the bot’s never had; seeing her twitch and shift in her sleep like the bot never could. It felt peaceful and safe in a way nothing else had since their mother died.

But it was also an unmissable opportunity to snoop without fear of Buffy waking up and stopping her….

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Giles slumped back against the cushions. “It’s not the chip, then,”

Willow shook her head. Her face was white and pinched with worry.

“What did you do to her, Willow?”

It didn’t matter that she’d been asking herself the exact same question from the moment she’d understood what the scans were telling her. His question just brought all their previous arguments straight back to the surface. “I did everything right!” she snapped. “Everything!”

“You made substitutions,” Giles snapped back. Part of him knew he should be more conciliatory, but the events of the last twenty-four hours had depleted his capacity for compassion. “Whatever possessed you to believe that a fawn could _possibly_ compensate for a human life?”

“So I should’ve killed someone instead?”

“I’d rather you hadn’t done it at all!” Giles shouted. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I taught you better than that.”

Her mouth dropped open. “ _You_ —” Willow sputtered. “You spent, what, two months teaching me after Miss Calendar died? Then Buffy came back from wherever she was and you dropped _my_ lessons like a hot potato!”

“I’d run out of things to teach you!” Giles said, more sharply than he’d intended.

Willow just stared at him. He’d never, ever said a word to her to indicate that was why he’d stopped. Why hadn’t he ever told her? She’d spent years trying to figure out what it was she’d done…. She felt as though she’d just aged a thousand years and she hated that Giles still had that kind of power over her; her parents certainly didn’t.

Giles, still largely oblivious, muttered, “I had so hoped everything would be Spike’s fault.”

Derailed entirely from her own feelings, Willow said, “Wait – you thought there was something wrong before?”

“Buffy’s changed, Willow. Surely you’ve noticed.”

“Well, sure, but, hello, _Hell_? It changes a person.”

“And how, precisely, do you know she was in Hell?”

“Why won’t you trust me anymore?!” Willow desperately wanted to be self-righteously angry, but somehow she was still fighting tears.

“You didn’t do any of the proper research! Only five books, Willow? I taught you better than that.”

“What?!” Willow had no idea what he was talking about, but Giles had yet to notice.

“Anya told me all about your ‘process’.”

“ _Anya_?” Willow couldn’t tell whether anger at Anya or betrayal by Giles was stronger. “She wasn’t there, Giles! Not when I was reading the online demon database. Or tracking down all the books you took with you when you abandoned us or just never had in the first place. She has no idea what I did!”

“Perhaps I was a trifle hasty in my assumptions.” Despite the backtrack, Giles’ eyes were hardening. “But you admitted yourself you never checked where Buffy went after she died.”

“I’m still stuck on you asking _Anya_.”

“You were hardly forthcoming when I asked you about it before,” Giles replied coldly.

“How _dare_ you judge me! And since when do you trust Anya over … well, over anyone?”

“It’s not about trusting Anya, Willow. It’s about not trusting you.” He hadn’t realised it was true until he said the words. He passed a hand over his mouth, shocked at himself.

Willow crushed the hurt and reached for the anger with both hands. “At least I never sold my soul to a demon,” she sneered. “That puts me a few steps ahead of you, doesn’t it?”

Not for the first time, Giles wished he’d been able to keep that particular piece of his history buried. “And I hoped you would learn from my mistakes and not try to cheat a god on the price of a resurrection! What happens when Osiris comes to you, demanding a human life in exchange for Buffy’s? Who will you sacrifice then?”

“But he accepted the price!”

Giles grimaced. “Do you _know_ that?”

Willow shrugged. “We killed one god. We can kill another.”

“Buffy _died_ killing that god!”

“And I brought her back!”

“So you’d just do it again? Keep bringing her back? Have you even spoken to her about this?”

“About what? I saved her from Hell!”

Giles would not be deterred: “If you’re so sure of that, how could you assume I wouldn’t want to help rescue her?” To him, this was the unanswerable argument, and, ultimately, why he’d stopped trusting Willow.

Spots of colour appeared on Willow’s cheeks; her eyes were pitiless. “Gee, I dunno, maybe ‘cause you wouldn’t lift a finger when we asked you to help with Dawn?”

A cloudy memory resurfaced, of Willow asking him – begging him – to do … _something._ But he’d brushed her off, unwilling to sober up enough even to understand what she’d wanted.

Giles squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t bring her into it.”

“Why not? She’s – whatever Dawn is, she’s part of Buffy. And Buffy…” Willow’s lips trembled with a grief that still felt fresh, even though all the reasons for it were gone. “Buffy sacrificed _everything_ so she would be okay. We owe – owed – it to her to make Dawn happy.”

Giles had finally found his answer as to why Willow and Xander’s priority had been Dawn rather than patrolling. But it was the merest flash of intellect in an otherwise overwhelming tumult of emotion at quite how badly he had handled, well, _everything_ in the immediate aftermath of her death.

Willow shrugged, feigning a nonchalance she couldn’t feel no matter how much she wished she could. “You left, Giles. Even before you went back to England. You made it very clear you didn’t care about any of us without Buffy.”

Giles drank down the last of his now-stone-cold tea while Willow watched, debating whether to just ask him to leave.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

To Dawn’s bitter disappointment, there was nothing cool or young-mind-corrupting in Buffy’s room. All the weapons had been moved downstairs months ago, and the only signs of the cohabiting evil vampire were clothes that were his – ‘cause black – folded almost apologetically in little piles on the chair and the vanity, plus a couple of brighter men’s dress shirts hanging from the knob of the closet door.

 _Lame_.

Then she noticed that there were honest-to-god towels on the towel-rail – something Buffy had never once used because hers always got dumped on her bed or the floor until Mom picked them up and put them in the bathroom.

Suddenly confronted with the fact that someone other than their mother would be picking up Buffy’s towels for the rest of their lives, Dawn lost interest in snooping. Gingerly, she sat down on the side of the bed, then curled carefully onto her side next to her sleeping sister. The bed was warm, like it hadn’t been any of the nights she’d snuck in to sleep in it over the summer. And the pillows, which had always smelled of must and laundry soap while the bot had been charging, were now slightly sticky from hair gel and stank of too many competing hair products. Less hygienic, certainly, but so, so much better.

She closed her eyes and just focussed on Buffy’s breathing. She wasn’t her mother – Dawn didn’t care what anyone said, Buffy just _wasn’t_ – but she’d come back and for right now that was enough.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“I should leave,” Giles said quietly.

Willow started to argue with him out of habit, then stopped herself. “Yeah. We’re done, aren’t we?”

Giles frowned. “Willow, I hope that we are never ‘done’.” Even to him, it sounded sanctimonious.

Willow’s eyebrows went up. The desire to cry was completely gone now – she just felt numb. “Why? You don’t trust me. You think my powers should be bound. Why wouldn’t you want us to be done?”

Giles looked stricken. “With your powers, you cannot afford to be complacent. You cannot isolate yourself.”

Willow laughed, shocked. “You’re the one isolating me! You’re the one telling anyone who’ll listen that I’m dangerous. That I would _hurt_ Tara!”

“You know, Jenny Calendar always said that what most impressed her about you was that you wielded almost infinite power and yet it never occurred to you to use it for mischief or personal gain. She was talking about computers, but I always assumed that it would be the same with magic.”

The words ‘I was wrong’, hung heavily between them, despite Giles’ choice to leave them unsaid.

“I guess we know where we stand, then,” Willow said quietly. She stood up. “I rescued Buffy from Hell. You go on thinking that’s ‘mischief or personal gain’ if you like. I think you’re just upset you didn’t think of it first.”

Giles stood up slowly. “And hiding Tara’s memories? Who else but you gained from that?”

Willow tensed. “That was a mistake. Tara did the spell; she’s safe now.”

Giles nodded. “At least we agree on that much.” He picked up the readouts of Spike’s brain. “Thank you for this.”

And then he left.


End file.
